


Parallel Lines (Explicit Version)

by kneipho



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Action/Adventure, Andorians, Commitment, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Infidelity, Mental Instability, Multi, Physical Abuse, Post-Endgame, Romance, Star Trek: Nemesis - Freeform, Telepathy, hetrosexuality, pansexuality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-11
Updated: 2015-06-14
Packaged: 2018-03-22 10:32:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 34,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3725500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kneipho/pseuds/kneipho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Progress (15/20):</p><p>Bibi nana's J/C ("Post "'Endgame'") Challenge</p><p>The ship makes it home. Chakotay and Seven stay together. Janeway hooks up with "a rich and powerful man." Throw in a party, a few more undisclosed details,<i> et le défi est relevé!</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Passed Ships

**Author's Note:**

> This story is an unabashed a love note to Fandom creativity. Conceived years ago, before _ST: Enterprises', The Aenar_ aired on television, I became aware of the Pocket Books, or even before some published. It has changed, since I began sporadically working on it again, to include Trek Cannon. Yes, I cherry pick from it and other sources (fan-based/ apocryphal, RPG, etc) for my amusement/ sanity. The plot, nonetheless, remains true to my prototypal outline. All original characters portrayed in this in this story are fictitious and do not represent anyone in reality.
> 
> The Aenar are not an extinct species, here, and exist in my 24th Century Universe. ;)
> 
> (Currently undergoing a) Beta: Dreamwriter5000  
> General/Character/Pairing Codes: MA, AU (Non-Canonical); J/C/7, J/m, f/m/m/f with sporadic appearances by -and with references to the usual (supporting) _Voyager_ Suspects.
> 
> Spoiler Alert: Misc. episodes throughout both _Voyager and Enterprise's runs, also TNG's "Violations" and Star Trek: Nemesis._
> 
> Dedicated to Leslie Fish, MrNiceGuy, CanonAntithesis, skadoo, Doc Yewll, Beawild,  
>  Dreamwriter5000 and to quantumsilver (who did something nice) —with special props and smooches to My  
> Man, Godfrey and Jett Wall.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Junior Parises throw a party.

Disclaimer: _Star Trek_ and all of its subsequent incarnations, (including _Voyager_ ) are property of CBS Corporation and Paramount Pictures. No profit made. No harm intended.

Tonight's episode brought to you by: Here With Me (Dido)

Part 1: Passed Ships

Stardate: 56035.051560121705 (January 13, 2379, Time: 19:03:06)  
Angel Island, (Tiburon/San Francisco Bay) Earth

He was thinner; his black hair cropped short, frosted over with strands of gray. Captain Kathryn Janeway studied his appearance from beneath a wide, unsophisticated wood arch that connected the Anteroom to the Main Hall. He looked good for a man who had spent eight months of his life locked up on New Zealand, she decided. _Good, but overwhelmed_. She almost smiled when she realized Lieutenants Tom Paris and B'Elanna Torres marched escort, their bodies positioned on either side of him, like hired sentinels.

The one-time crew of the _U.S.S. Voyager_ rushed forward; an excitable plenitude of red, blue, black, and gold, eager to welcome their quondam XO. Chakotay disappeared from view. Janeway slipped into the crowd, her delicate frame traveling effortlessly through the mortal crush.

\------------------------------------

He stumbled as he plodded along, numbly shaking the nearest outstretched hand. The honeycombed bastion of faces which obstructed his path seemed to absorb all the oxygen from the room, leaving him sweaty; struggling for air.

"It is good to see you, again, Sir."

Chakotay bobbed his head abruptly, not quite sure who or what had addressed him: Miguel Ayala and the EMH, Commander Tuvok of Vulcan, a newly promoted Harry Kim. His comrades of the Delta were all at hand, yet blended somehow —their features presenting themselves to him as one entity: their voices, an auditory blur.

"We are all so happy, you are released." The United Splotch went on.

Chakotay placed one, great, sorrel paw on his hip —a practiced stance of nonchalance, and tried to differentiate individuals within the Living Blob. "Thank you," he said, his tone rusty. "It's good to be free."

B'Elanna flashed him an odd look as he swiped covertly at his brow. Cupping her hands into a low-tech amplifier, the diminutive Klingon boomed into the crowd, "Back up people! Let's allow our man room to breathe!" 

Tom gave Chakotay's arm a fortifying squeeze, then punched it, playfully. "Relax, Big Guy. No one's gonna bite you," he said, then winked. "Okay, a few of the women might." B'Elanna whacked her husband lightly on the stomach, but the pilot blabbed on, unfazed, "You know, I hear nothing beats a private assimilation party. Maybe you'll get lucky."

"Shut up, Pig."

Tom grabbed B'Elanna by the arm and yanked her, flush, against his side. "Oink," he teased. She hit him again. 

Chakotay pinched his lips together at the exchange, the familiar, antic banter of friends alleviating the sharpest edges of his agitation. Although he was beginning to feel a bit more grounded, he still felt as if his situation was not quite real. He could not help but wonder if his release and the party were, yet, another set of fabrications forged by his imagination. That everything: the building, the music, his crewmates, would all suddenly vanish with the scuttling of a rat across the stone floor. He needed time to gather his wits. "Would you mind if I went outside?" he asked, tugging at his earlobe. "I could use some fresh air."

\-------------------

The night was cool, and the air was still. Chakotay took a deep, deep breath, enjoying the quiet, willing himself to relax. The garden was vacant as far as he could tell, the mellow radiance of several outdoor torches providing mood, rather than light. He spied a small bench beside a large animal topiary, seven or eight meters away and walked over to it. Hard chunks of gravel crunched under his feet as he lumbered along a provincial looking track. He hunkered down on the bench with a sigh.

A solitary cricket chirped in the darkness. Chakotay listened intently, his palms resting on slick marble, as he appreciated the sound.

Without warning, B'Elanna's lithe form set down on the bench alongside him with a thump. He jumped. He couldn't help it. His heart hammered noisily inside his chest. "You all right?" she inquired, concerned.

"Of course I'm all right. You surprised me; that's all. Where's Tom?"

"Convincing Harry to spike the punch. Ready to come back inside?"

Chakotay's heart continued to bang away against his ribs. "Give me a minute, okay?"

She stared at him. "This party is a bad idea," she said. "You aren't ready for a crowd."

"Oh, C'mon— "

"I knew we should have planned something smaller."

"No. This is good. Believe me. I've lived more than enough of the segregated lifestyle. Give me my minute to adapt. I'll be fine."

The cricket trilled again, singing into the night.

"Was it bad, Chakotay?"

"What?"

"Administrative Isolation."

He considered lying to her for a hot second, carefully studying her tanned features in the open air. Her mouth set into a determined line, her capable fingers already reaching out to offer support. "I've never been more lonely in my life," he admitted. "There were times I thought I was losing my mind." B'Elanna patted and his knee. He decided to change the subject, knowing she would understand. "How's the baby?"

"Fine. Big. Angry. Beautiful. We brought her with us. She's asleep at the hotel with the nanny."(1)

"Nanny?"

"My father hired her."

"Your father?"

"You seem shocked. I was too, at first. Get this, she's from the Homeworld. A gifted buttressing of Kronos-Culture from my deadbeat, human father —to his estranged bi-species daughter, for his grandchild." She laughed splenetically. "A peace offering, Tom thinks. "Of course, Tom also worships the ground the old fury tramples across."

"Of course. And you wish she'd drop dead."

"No. I like her. Miraculously, she manages to bake an edible blood pie." He lifted her rough, little palm from his knee and kissed it. They sat in companionable silence for several minutes until he twisted around to glance in the direction of the party. "What is it?" She shifted position and tried to see to see past his thewy frame.

"Nothing. I was looking for Seven... and Kathryn."

"We haven't been here, all that long, Chakotay. They may not even know you arrived." She kicked the ground with a regulation boot. Sharp-edged pebbles shelled the base of an unsuspecting agave plant. "You should have let them come with us to pick you up."

"No."

"Seven is your wife. She's had a miserable time adjusting to Federation society. The Borg aren't exactly popular in the Alpha Quadrant, and Starfleet has offered her zero support."

"Hardly a surprise, now, is it?" he countered, purposely ignoring the point she was trying to make.

She tossed him an angry glare. "You do know they still have Icheb?"

Chakotay gazed out unhappily at nothing in particular. "Any word on his status?"

"Headquarters won’t lift the veil regarding his whereabouts and refuses to confirm or deny acceptance of his DQ expatriation. Tom tried asking his father, but the admiral won't say anything. Janeway is officially out of the loop. She hasn't been forgiven for taking your story to the Media."

"I never asked her to speak out, on my behalf."

"You'd still be incarcerated if she hadn't."

"My mother is dead, B’Elanna. I’m not looking for another."

"Don't be an asshole. Captain Janeway earned the right to see you materialize outside the Gate."

"I didn't want either one of those women to see me anywhere near that place. All right?"

Her dark brows dipped in disgust, eyes all but disappearing beneath the aggravated ridges protruding from her forehead. "That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. You're a stupid ex-con, Chakotay."

"Yeah," he said, giving her a subdued grin, "But you love me anyway."

She did. They both knew it. "Pet aQ!" she spat. (2)

He pulled her close and hugged her tight. _Sweet Skies Above._ He had missed her. "I never thought I'd see the day you'd champion Seven of Nine."

She growled and pinched at his skin, squeezing the tender flesh above his belt buckle until he yelped. "What can I say? She married my old boss."

"Now Chak!" Tom shouted, poking his sandy head out from beneath the door frame, tone oozing with fraudulent severity as it zoomed across several flower beds. "Something is definitely wrong with this picture!"

"You think so, Paris?!" Chakotay hollered back. He veered about and hauled B'Elanna into his lap. "Let's see," I have a beautiful woman in my arms and I am a free man once more! Nothing wrong here, everything seems fine to me!"

"You may have a beautiful woman in your arms, Big Guy, but I'm afraid she's the wrong one! As to the free part, well, you might want to discuss that with somebody else!"

"Commander." The voice was less mechanical, suppler than in his memory.

"Seven," he croaked in surprise, as she descended into the night. He could see her long curves outlined in the shadows, floating toward him. An alabaster sway of Valkyrie perfection swathed in the clinging fabric of a simple evening dress.

B'Elanna moved to rise, a knowing smile plastered across her face. Her friend, however, distracted by the newest arrival in the garden, failed to relinquish one of her legs. She wobbled precariously, a dying willow in the breeze; half-boot twisting off her foot and parking itself in the dirt under the bench. "Let go!" she hissed.

Chakotay abandoned the limb. Shifting to protect his genitalia from her rising ire, he crossed his legs. The movement did not escape Tom's notice. The younger man promptly doubled over, held captive by a fit of his own laughter. B'Elanna snorted. She snatched her dusty boot from the ground and began stomping a heavy path toward the Hall. 

"A swift blow to the jaw, aimed upwards, would render Mister Paris unconscious for several hours." Seven advised.

Leather and nails squashed down in an angry fist to a horizontal nothing. "I imagine it would. Thanks."

Tom's eyes doubled in size. Mutely, he followed his mate back to the party.

Seven watched the dyad leave then drifted over to Chakotay, hands clasped behind her back. Her cheeks were undeniably pink. "Do you think Mister Paris' injuries will be severe?"

Chakotay smiled tautly, without dimples. "Yes, but I think he'll survive." He waited for her to say more, to sit beside him, but she did not. He decided to stand. "How are you?"

"I am functioning within normal parameters."

"Good."

"You are thin."

"Reformatory rations hardly compare with your Mock Chicken and Risotto."

"That is unfortunate." Her face was serious. "Your hair has lost much of its former pigmentation."

He shoved his hands into his pants pockets. "Does it make me look old?"

"Yes, but I do not find it unattractive."

He smiled again. Facial concavities appeared."... Seven?"

"What is it?" she asked, moving closer.

He had forgotten how much like sapphires her eyes were. How clear they were, how exceptionally blue. He sucked in his breath. She smelled clean and fresh, like Castile soap and spring. "I wanted to be with you during the interrogation—" 

She interrupted. "You could not."

"I'm sorry."

"There was nothing you could do."

“You should not have gone through that process by yourself."

"I was not 'by myself' the entire time," she corrected, shaking her blond head, her voice matter- of- fact. "Starfleet allowed both your sister and Captain Janeway to be present during sections of my interrogation. Our own Emergency Medical Hologram was programmed to carry out a number of the required tests and procedures." She glanced over at the flower beds, away from him. "It was not nearly as invasive an experience as I anticipated."

"Don't lie to me, Seven."

Her posture wilted slightly with his words. Redirecting her gaze to his shirt collar, she reached out for him: a gentle effort that caught his wrist in a fracturable hold. He shivered and pulled away. He felt skittish, unmanned, his mind seized by the impulse to flee. He stood his ground. He took her implant embedded hand into his own and looked directly into her face. "Forgive me. I'm nervous... It's been such a long time."

Seven placed her free hand behind his head, at the base of his neck, and drew him to her slowly: centimeter by centimeter until their lips were all but touching. Her breath was moist and sweet in his nose and on his cheeks. Her eyes, uncommonly bright. Chakotay," she said. "We have been apart for many months." Chakotay couldn't breathe. He was drowning. "I think," she whispered, "It would be appropriate for you to kiss me now."

He did.

\------------------------------------

Kathryn Janeway observed, unnoticed, concealed by a coyote bush resembling a moribund lamb, as two people she venerated, rejoined beneath the stars. They looked complete, together. She wanted to weep. So much had happened since _Voyager_ first burst through the Queen's Trans-warp Conduit into the Alpha Quadrant.

Her ship's re-emergence had been a fantastical event. Everything had come to pass with such speed. One moment she was fighting off the Borg, lost in space, light years away home; the next, facing an armada of Starfleet vessels, Earth looming the tangible distance. Then, just as precipitately, _Voyager_ was in Quarantine and she found herself hatching a plan to marry her most intimate partisan —to her own protégé, before Starfleet separated everyone, and hauled them away. It was better now, but life had changed. 

She peered through the bushes at the couple embracing in the moonlight.  Seven murmured softly. Chakotay moaned. Kathryn closed her eyes, realizing, for the first time, she truly was alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Parallel Lines: Passed Ships, kneipho 2004, 2015
> 
> 1\. From a P/T fanfic -I can't remember which one. If any of you out there do, please contact me. I would like to give the author proper credit.
> 
> 2\. Pet aQ -Klingon epitaph


	2. Hair of the Dog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Janeway finds herself a man.

Disclaimer: _Star Trek_ and all of its subsequent incarnations, (including _Voyager_ ) are property of CBS Corporation and Paramount Pictures. No profit made. No harm intended.

Synopsis for Part 1: The Junior Parises throw a party.  
Tonight's episode brought to you by: Come Here My Love, and At First, And Then (This Mortal Coil).

\------------------------------------

Part 2: Hair of the Dog

Stardate: 56036.444063926865 (January 14, 2379, Time: 07:15:00)  
Sacramento, Earth

Something was amiss. She knew things were not right, even as her mind reached for full consciousness. The mattress felt strange: too firm for her own, and the bedding (though comfortable enough) lacked the usual, accustomed silken texture. As she roused, sluggish, but determined, from a blacked-out slumber, Kathryn Janeway discovered herself penned in by unfamiliar, low-lit surroundings.

"Lights on-line," she ordered, not positive she would receive a response. "Full illumination." Manufactured brilliance sprang forth, uncharitably ebullient, to poke fiendishly at her pupils. She screeched in protest and flipped over onto her bare stomach, inhuming her face into the level surface of the mattress."Reverse previous illumination command!"

The brightness reduced, generating, once more, the lackluster glow reminiscent of a late Indiana afternoon in winter. Kathryn toiled into a relatively vertical position. Every muscle in her body objected as she surveyed her environment through bloodshot eyes.

With the exception of the box spring and top mattress on which she had waked to find herself sprawled, the room was empty: virtually devoid of furniture or wall adornments. Three chunky travel/storage canisters sat in a row near the foot of the bed. To her left, was the lavatory. The sliding door panel left open by a former occupant. To the right, another door, which led, she presumed, to other, more public areas.  "Shit," she cursed at the storage canisters in dismay. "What did I do last night?"

Recollections of the previous evening jumbled about, skittering indecisively between salmon colored ear lobes. She attempted to put the memories in order. _Chakotay's Homecoming:_

She had waited for him in the garden hoping to converse with him in private.

She had watched him reconnect with his wife in the shadows.

She remembered hugging him sometime later in the center of the rented hall.

Tom proposed a toast; there had been more cocktails... _Andorian Milk._ The words de-scrambled themselves through a blurred and throbbing haze. (3)

Last night, at a table, tucked away in a dark secluded corner, she tossed down several rounds of shooters from a row of short, fat glasses. She left the party for a bar with a man she had never met before, a tall and slender stranger, a widower with blue skin and ebon eyes. Kathryn tumbled from the bed, trying to ignore the acid churning in her stomach, and started searching the room for her clothes.

Last night she had gone home with a member of the Andorian Parliamentary Council.

 _Crap Almighty._ “You let an alien politician have you for the price of a couple of drinks," she scolded herself. Scouring the bed, she retrieved a pair of underpants from beneath a dented pillow. "Where are the rest of my damn clothes?"

Muted shuffles emanating from one of the adjoining rooms stalled her search. She dropped the underpants and grabbed a blanket off the bed, concealing her nudity, as the door panel slid open.

A handsome azure man in mid-life-cycle stood in the entryway, a Starfleet uniform —her uniform, newly pressed, draped carefully over one arm. Dressed casually, he wore a lion-colored tunic and black trousers that tucked cleanly into well-worn boots. Soft white hair hung over dark eyes and about his neck in a civilian shag. His head, tilted at a slight, downward angle, crowned by two semi-ridged antennae.

Kathryn's blushed uncharacteristically, as his gaze roamed the length of her body. He smiled. Flawless columns of ivory emerged from between parted lips. "Your footwear is in the Foyer, but I took your uniform downstairs for cleaning," he said, his words accented with the canorous influence of his own world's tongue. "I do not have a clothing refresher of my own. I hope this is acceptable."

"Thank you." she replied and pulled the scratchy blanket up a bit more.

"You are welcome."

The muscular protuberances atop his skull began to sway. She stared at his head in fascination as they made slow writhing motions that somehow bypassed the pulsing-headache mucking up her memory. _Ek'Norval._ An erotic transpiration floated up within her mind's eye along with the man's name. She saw his long body between her legs; moving over her; driving into her. Her own frame quaking with pleasure as she screamed out mid-orgasm; her hands pinned helplessly above her head.

Kathryn's nipples hardened with the vision. The blood drained from her face as she nearly fell to the floor.

He was beside her in an instant: antenna flash-frozen, supporting her weight as her knees gave way. His grip was strong. "Kathy?" he ventured, "Are you ill?"

"No." she gasped. "Well, I guess I am in a manner of speaking... I drank too much last night."

"You are not used to consuming alcoholic beverages?"

Her grin was non-symmetrical. "Oh, I'm used to consuming them all right. Just not quite so many at once."

"I see." He frowned; guiding her until she sat safely on the bed, then handed over her clothes. Without another word, he withdrew into the next room.

She dressed rapidly, wishing she could order a site-to-site transport to her apartment. She sat down again when she had finished and soon became absorbed in the complex activity of twiddling her thumbs. _Ek'Norval. _Proud descendant of Aenar historians, a Thallassan general, and of Andor(ia)’s arguably most apotheosized clan chieftain, Ek'Norval, was a telepath with a gift for diplomacy. (4) Considered the planet's coruscate political star, she knew. She had seen his name several times in the media pads as well as holo-images of him looking serious and shaking hands with the Federation President. "You've seen him naked Kathryn Janeway," she reminded herself tersely. "Oh, Good Vulcan Lord."__

__

"Imbibe this."

She looked up. A huge mug swashing with a bright yellow liquid pressed its way into her palm. It smelled awful. "Could I have a cup of coffee instead?"

"I do not have coffee."

"I don't mind drinking the replicated stuff."

"I do not own a replicator."

She was living her worst nightmare. She got up. "That's it," she decreed. "We're through."

The Andorian chuckled, the sound both rhythmical and pleasant. It skipped along the nerve endings at the nape of her neck, and she enjoyed the experience despite the looming prospect of caffeine deprivation. "Drink Kathy," he coaxed. "It will ease your discomfort."

His compassionate demeanor made her want to brush the cloud-like mane away from his face and taste his firmness of his lips. She disregarded the impulse and took a cautious sip from the mug. The brew was tart; almost bitter but tasted nicer than it smelled. Burning a little, as it slid down her throat, it gently heated her thorax. She felt better immediately and finished the rest. "Not bad for a hangover cure. What's in it?”

"A combination of ingredients." He looked hopeful as she set the drained container on top of one of the storage canisters. "You are improved?"

"I am."

"You have consumed mostly tea leaves dissolved in water, mixed with a goodly portion of Gredlahr."

"Gredlahr? Gredlahr's an alcoholic!"

"I find it most soothing after an evening of excess."

She glowered at him, incredulous. "I have to go home." she snapped. "I really need a cup of coffee."

"You wish to leave? You wish to leave because I have no coffee?"

"Yes. You are going to get me plastered all over again. One inebriated sexual blunder is enough for me, thanks."

"Why?" Ek'Noval appeared genuinely bewildered. "I am unattached. You have no one to go home to."

"Tell me you didn't say those words out loud."

"Am I mistaken?"

"What?"

"You are un-mated. Are you not?"

"Yes, but— "

"You have no other current inamorato?"

"No. "

"Then why leave me?"

Kathryn scored the surface of her cheeks with pointed fingernails. "Slow down. Leave you? I don't even know you."

"Untrue."

"No, it isn't."

"You have taken me inside your body. You have tasted my flesh. I have spilled myself into your womb, felt you splinter in my arms."

"I don't remember that." she lied.

He glanced at her sideways, imparting both pique and mirth at her through umbrous eyes. "She is with him now."

"Excuse me?"

"The Borg woman is gone. She has bonded with another."

"I don't believe this." Kathryn chuntered, swaying on her feet, just a bit. She waved one hand at him in disgust and tromped off for the bathroom. He followed her.

"I apologize" he offered. "But I saw the way you looked at the woman and her husband after his arrival. You propositioned me so soon afterward, I assumed— "

She halted her in her tracks and spun around. "You assumed what? I was trying to invoke a little jealousy?" 

"No, no. Not at all. You seemed most sorrowful to me like you had lost something precious to you." His black stare burrowed into her with a disconcerting sort of intensity. "But it is not her, is it?" he questioned. He was almost talking to himself. "Yes, it is, but not like that." He cocked his head in understanding. "The man is a fool."

Kathryn's throat constricted, and she swallowed convulsively. She took a steadying breath to help fight off the unexpected sense of vulnerability until she found rescue in the upright form of anger. "How did you get into the party last night?" she inquired gruffly, all at once, the Starfleet captain. "It was supposed to be a private celebration."

"I am not without connections. I used them to meet you."

"Why?"

"I want you to marry me."

Her ‘captain’ jaw dropped, swinging open on its hinges. Silence spread out between them like a trail of tachyon particles ejecting from the stern of a Starship, as her resentment gave way to stupefaction. Ek'Norval laughed.

"Please, my apologies... again," he choked out. "My proposal is a serious one, I assure you, but you look as if you think I intend to flay you alive use your skin to cobble shoes. It is truly comical. There is no need for you to be afraid."

"I'm not afraid," she countered, mystified. "It's not exactly customary for me to wake up in the apartment of a man I just met, without my clothes. And I usually have at least three cups of coffee before I allow anyone to read my mind and I start entertaining marriage proposals."

"I would not worry about my mind if I were you," he advised her quietly. He wasn't smiling. "It is your face. It is easy to read."

She scowled at him. "Try playing poker with me when I haven't been drinking. By the way, informing a Terran woman you can read her face like a simple math equation is generally considered to be quite rude."

"Is it?"

"Yes." _Q, are you behind all this?_ she wondered, half wishing the omnipotent prankster would appear, even as she discounted the notion. Her head was spinning. She needed to lie down. "Ek'Norval, in my culture, sex between two consenting adults does not necessarily equal commitment

He moved closer until he stood near enough to pull her into an embrace. "I intended to offer myself to you last night, before, but we became so engrossed in each other, I forgot." He pushed a wayward lock of auburn hair away from her forehead.

Kathryn's toes curled around the soft fibers of the carpet. "Don't do that." She warned.

"Why not?"

"I don't want you to."

He rolled his eyes and made his way to the bed, then smoothed out a few rumples in the top sheet and picked a pillow up off the floor. "As a young man little was expected of me other than to participate in the Fromel, engage in the Shelthreth: to marry and settle down. (5) Which I did —with two telepaths chosen for me by my relations and, a beautiful, ordinary girl I had known all my life whom I adored.

"For Andorians, creating offspring is a vital obligation. We did not neglect said duty. Although considered natural for all our females to bear telepathic children —for non-Aenar, it is, ofttimes, with great difficulty. Thelees was not as strong as she was beautiful. She could not withstand the psychic tumult of a mongrel gestation. She died within the changing of the seasons, children never to be born." He sat down on the bed and placed the pillow in his lap. "I was bereft. For the longest while, I felt nothing, as if I had nothing, was nothing. In time, after the preternatural disintegration of the remains of my marriage, my duty shifted. I took solace in working to advance the welfare of my clans, serving the Council. Since I no longer had a family -my own household, left to care for, I was able to take on an unconstrained level of responsibility."

"Which led to even more responsibility." she finished for him.

He nodded. "And ultimately to my position as Liaison for the Councillor."

"I feel terrible for the loss of your family," she said, buffing the skin of her forehead with a loose-jointed fist. "But I don't understand what it has to do with me."

He extended a single leg out into a straight line, indulging the limb with a careless stretch. "My wife's death has discharged me from the tacit onus of traditional matrimony required of most men in my profession. My temperament is ill-suited to the demands of plural marriage, in any case. I consider it a blessing." He let the leg fall, calf striking the side of the mattress as his foot returned to the floor. He surprised her with, yet, another grin. "The situation does make me appear as something of a tragic figure within Andorian society, however. It would not hurt me politically to wed."

"I still don't understand. Why me?"

"Why not? You are smart, independent. Your return to the Alpha Quadrant has made you a favorite with the public and you know how to play the Media. Your name attached to mine would garner a great deal of publicity."

"You're hardly an unknown. Surely you don't need me to make news."

"If I want to make a true name for myself and help Andor(ia), yes, I do."

She hesitated before speaking, feeling fuzzy, trying hard to absorb all of his words and properly organize her own. _How far in the sphere of intergalactic politics does this man intend to go?_ He couldn't seriously be convinced she could assist him in getting there. _Captain Janeway_ might be popular within the citizenry, but Starfleet wielded a great deal of influence in the bailiwick of Federation politics and they were, well... less than thrilled with her right now. Not to mention, Andorians, as a united people (present company excepted), had a reputation for being rather xenophobic. A quiet affair with an off-worlder might be tolerated. But, a council member, _marrying one?_ The whole scheme came off as mad. "Thank you for the offer," she began, "but you and I, while it all may look good to you on the surface... For me, marriage is a serious undertaking. Bonding permanently with a man... Look, you and I, we come from different worl—" 

He cut her off, "Really, Kathy, there is no need to react to my proposal like a specieist, I do not anticipate any insurmountable objections."

Kathryn did not appreciate the condescension, but let the comment pass.

"Ours would not be a union devoid of affection," he persisted, "My Aenar blood would provide us a connection. Not in the true telepathic sense, but I would constantly be aware of you —able to sense your life force at all times. If your ship were lost again, for instance, I would automatically know whether you were alive. I would not choose to build a life with someone else."

She couldn't seem to think straight. Was he referring to her _ex-fiancé, Mark?_ She wasn't sure. Her cheeks were on fire, and both her chin and the tip of her nose had gone numb. She could not figure out if the uproar in sensation was a physical reaction to the disquietude of the last twenty-four hours or simply the effects of too much Gredlahr.

The quandary, itself, confirmed inebriation.

Ek'Noval contemplated her through frosty lashes. "You are entertaining Kathy, and I enjoy your company. Our sexual compatibility is undeniable. I could help you."

"Help me?"

"You are concerned with the fate of the Borg adolescent."

"Icheb?" She shook herself, trying desperately to concentrate, her voice reverberating uncomfortably inside her head. _Icheb. Icheb._ "What about him? Do you know where he is?"

"The boy has been officially declared a 'Ward of the Federation.' He remains in Starfleet custody at Headquarters."

"How do you know?"

"I told you, I am not without connections."

"When will he be released?" Ek'Norval shrugged. "Can you arrange for me to see him?"

He didn't answer.

She wheeled away from him with all the sturdiness of a child's spinning top. "If I marry you, you'll arrange for me to visit my own crewman, is that it?" It was crazy. He was crazy. She started giggling.

Powerful arms coiled around her from behind.

Kathryn swallowed a cry of alarm. It was as if he had lashed her to a wall of granite. His body was a rock, condensed; adamantine, despite a reedy casing. She gnawed at the tip of her tongue and fought to remain calm: standing motionless as his hands slid inside the jacket of her uniform, as they slipped under the thin protection of her turtleneck and connected with her skin. "Anima accomplice. The would be bondmate of my choosing." His words came out sounding like a song.

She jerked within the circle of his arms. "This is ridiculous. You do realize there's not a chance in Hell; I'll marry you."

He didn't anything at first —exhaling roughly, emission broken, into the flowing, burnished waterfall of her hair. Her upper lip began to itch, filming over with a thin layer of perspiration as his palms massaged her body; slowly kneading a deep red line along the cage of her ribs. Tiny oscillations broke out across the freckled surface of her torso while he worked his way upward —the calloused plates of skin covering his knuckles inevitably scraping the soft undersides of her breasts. He changed course. Almost gently, he labored his way back down again, stalling for a compact instant at the dip in her belly, before finally ceasing progress at her hips. "I understand," he whispered, his petrous form molding to hers through the combined folds of their clothing. "I will make arrangements for you to visit the boy tomorrow morning."

Abruptly, he relaxed his hold.

She made the decision to run, formulating a haphazard plan at the moment: to elbow him in the neck, as his grip upon her eased. To her consternation, instead of making her escape, she found herself sagging backward, absolutely boneless and confused. His reaction was immediate: his mouth trailing an algid, thrill-besieging ribbon slick with desire from her ear down to her chin. It felt so good, being touched. Wanted, even overpowered, but not really. Kathryn understood she'd given up her chance to take control. She was sick of taking charge. She felt tired —so tired of being lonely, tired of always fighting. Fighting opposite one oppressive force or another, fighting with herself for self-command.

He was fondling her again, this time playing with her nipples, flicking at the tips until she thrashed about, her flesh impatient, teasing her beneath the muted fabric of her shirt. Through the thin cotton barrier of her standard-issue bra, he rolled the sensitive peaks between thumbs and forefingers; pinching them until they crinkled into impossibly tight, matching spikes of need.

"I had it all figured out before we met." he confessed into her turtleneck.

"Yes, yes, I'm sure you did."

"Stay with Me." he urged. He sounded strangely lost.

Kathryn made no protest when he moved to peel her slacks off her hips, easing the garment down along her flanks like the skin of a banana. His hands returned to manipulate her breasts as he used a booted foot to force the material off her legs: past her ankles, kicking it down from inside the neck of the waistband. She raised her left foot, then the right. The pants fell off her toes and then away. An antenna brushed her temple, and they both sank to their knees, yielding to the urgency of a shared and escalating need. She fell forward. He went with her; his chest pressed against her spine, stability wavering —forcing her to support them both on wobbling arms. Equilibrium returned and he reared up.  


She could feel him trembling, trembling as she stared down into the carpet, feel him as he tore at her underwear —as he pulled his erection from his trousers. When he began to stroke her intimately, her insides fused together, melted into liquid, into pleasure with each maddening caress. She whimpered underneath him on the floor beside the bed: waiting; aching; poised and open, until her lover finally thrust himself inside her. Biting down as he wrenched back, she moaned when he plunged deeper: blue fingers kneading the button of her clitoris, stone penis stretching the well between her thighs.  


"I promise, Kathy." He crooned to her in ragged notes. "I promise I will take care of everything, tomorrow."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Parallel Lines: Hair of the Dog, kneipho 2004, 2015
> 
>  
> 
> 3\. Andorian Milk: 2 cl. (2/3 oz). Blue Curacao, 1 cl. (1/3 oz.) Milk—Bar None Drink Recipes
> 
> 4\. Andorian Ethnicities — Races (Star Trek Geekipeda):
> 
> Thallassan: Darker, with knobby antennae from the rear parietal lobes. The most numerous of all the sub-species, mostly coastal dwellers. Fond of technology.
> 
> Thalish (Talish): Grayer with flimsy, stalk-like antennae from the front parietal lobes, they are less numerous than either the Thallassan or the Bishee.
> 
> Bishee: Lighter-skinned with straight antennae rising from just above the forehead. They are the second most numerous "ethnicity " They tend to live more inland, are still semi-nomadic and more tradition-bound.
> 
> Aenar: White-skinned with small flimsy antennae like the Thalish. They are an offshoot of the Bishee and were considered a myth until the 22nd century when a small colony was found surviving at the poles. Born blind typically (their eyes move around and they can see colors) and powerfully telepathic, they are very pacifistic in nature. They are so secretive that even most Andorians never see them in the flesh.
> 
> 5\. Fromel —Andorian wedding  
> Shelthreth —The union of all four bondmates for the purpose of reproduction.  
> Additional Notes: Various information used to invent the character Ek'Norval: Cannon facts, some Trek Apocrypha found in books and within the web-based fannon,(Star Trek Geekapedia, Memory Alpha, Andorian Star Trek Wiki, Among the Clans—Last Unicorn Games, varying Trek Apocrypha,Andorian Orientation College - Starfleet Academy (acad.sfi.org/courses/alien/doc/AOCManual.pdf), and, most notably, the wonderful A Summary of the Physiological Roots of Andorian Culture, by Leslie Fish).  
>    
> Additional Notes: Various information used to invent the character Ek'Norval: Cannon facts, some Trek Apocrypha found in books and within the web-based fannon,(Star Trek Geekapedia, Memory Alpha, Andorian Star Trek Wiki, Among the Clans—Last Unicorn Games, varying Trek Apocrypha,Andorian Orientation College - Starfleet Academy (acad.sfi.org/courses/alien/doc/AOCManual.pdf), and, most notably, the wonderful A Summary of the Physiological Roots of Andorian Culture, by Leslie Fish).


	3. Broken Rhythm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chakotay freaks out and fucks up... A lot.

Disclaimer: _Star Trek_ and all of its subsequent incarnations, (including _Voyager_ ) are property of CBS Corporation and Paramount Pictures. No profit made. No harm intended.

Synopsis for Part 2: Janeway finds herself a man.  
Tonight's episode brought to you by: Down With The Sickness (Disturbed).

\------------------------------------

Part 3: Broken Rhythm

Stardate: 56370.155599949154 (May 16, 2379, Time: 02:33:47)  
Dorvan V Reconstruction Colony, Dorvan Planetary System, Former Demilitarized Zone*

Chakotay recognized his location the moment he crossed over: the freshly leached fields of Dorvan V. (6) The long rows of dirt readied for planting, in accordance with tradition, by the able-bodied members of his tribe. He stood in the center of the fields, as he had done the day before, smashing bean plants into the Carrdassian-abused soil with a metal-tipped rod. The cultivator's staff lay half-buried in the earth at his feet. He bent down to pick it up.

A low-pitched whimpering sound diverted his attention.

Next to, a scraggy charcoal-colored rock in the sun lay what looked like a wild dog. It stared at him, all matted fur and muscle, obviously injured. He took a careful step in its direction. The canine jerked up its head and howled.

Chakotay loped backward, watching in fascinated horror as the animal's limbs began to pop and shrink before his eyes: the distorting appendages shriveling into the beast's body; disappearing like Tortoise into his shell. Snout and teeth dissolved into themselves. Bones granulated and reformed. Pelt hardened, dropping coat and oiling until the skin and fur had become smooth and cold. A snake now, armored with scales of an ugly green and a starting yellow, it stuck its forked tongue out at him and hissed. He recoiled, and it slithered away, to watch him from underneath the rock —reptilian eyes glowing eerily in the shadows.

Anxious, and not knowing what else to do, he snatched up the farming tool and waited. He did not wait long. Seven appeared from beyond the horizon, and for a moment, he felt relieved. She waved when she saw him, but, as she strode closer, he noticed she was without implants. When she reached him, she smiled and kissed his nose.

"Hello, dear-heart. Did you sleep well?" She did not sound like herself at all. "It is such a gorgeous day. Why not skip your chores and spend time with me?"

Chakotay considered the space beneath the rock where the serpent had concealed itself. Seven stared at him expectantly, looked into him with foggy irises of deep cinnamon overlaid with a translucent stratum of mustard-gray. His whole body stiffened. The hairs at the nape of his neck came alive. "I lingered too long over breakfast this morning," he said, turning from her. He strove to push down a blunt-prickle of fear; struggled with the growing range of it, as he tried to keep his intonations flat, "Man alone, kills jaguars. I need to work."

She seized his arm and dragged him back, shoving a bag filled with rotting puffballs under his nose. "See what I found in the caves on my way home from the Village." He froze, recognizing the voice. "Don't you think they'll taste delicious?"

The combined odors of fermenting bean pods and putrefied fungus were more than he could bear. He knocked the satchel from her hands. It fell to the ground. The mushrooms tumbled out and rolled, coating over with black loam.

Her reaction was disturbing. The corners of her mouth turned down with all the innocent petulance of a child; while her eyes, murky and iniquitous, never left his face. Dread billowed down his spine in waves. Kicking the sack aside, she circled around the back of him until she had re-positioned herself at his elbow. "You are an idiot," she insulted with relish. "Ridiculous as ever: refusing to separate from duty, always returning, even when you should be free." She clamped one hand down, hard, on his shoulder, making him wince. "What a bore you are, my darling. No wonder Janeway didn't want you. Of course, recognizing the characteristics of a subtle come on never has been your strong suit. Is this why you like your Borg so much? Her direct approach doesn't confuse you?"

Her pale cheek came to rest against the bulge of his bent arm. Chakotay secured his grip around the center of his staff. "I practically had to hit you over the head and drag you under the covers to get you to sleep with Me," she mused, seemingly oblivious. "It was worth it, though, and you loved me for it. Didn't you? Remember all the fun we used to have together? The way you used to squeal like a Bajoran piglet every time I took you into my mouth."

He made his move then: pivoting; arms raised, more than ready to whack the bitch straight into oblivion —when the pressure on his shoulder increased. The pain was suddenly intolerable, paralyzing, forcing him to drop his weapon. He tried to pry the bony digits away, digging weakly into them with his fingernails. The pain became even worse; escalating into something so great it held his whole being hostage. His knees converted into jelly. His legs gave way. He toppled forward into the soil. Muck and bean pods packing into his nose.

She kicked him several times to roll him over, and then straddled him, dropping down onto his chest with so much force it cracked his ribs. He screamed. "Look at Me," she demanded. He gasped, desperate to fill his lungs with air. She slapped his face. "Look at Me!" Hair, like flames of fire, flew chaotically about her head; her features, twisted into a grotesque mask of both and triumph and mirth.

"S-Seska," he managed to wheeze." W-what do you want?"(7)

His old enemy leaned forward, crushing him, driving out what little oxygen he had left in his body as she hissed into the air. "I don't know, Lover. You tell me."

\------------------------------------

Chakotay bolted upright in bed, legs drawn, heart thundering erratically. Bug-eyed, panting, terror riddling through him like blasts from a phaser, he found himself shocked into a consternate state of wakefulness. He contemplated his circumstances, peered into the shadows for hidden danger. Then hurdled from the bed to pace the room like a beast in a cage. He had to get his body under control. If Seven broke from regeneration now, he was certain she would start asking questions. Bending down, he deposited his head between his knees, centralizing his energy on the whirring sounds originating from the Alcove his wife retired to during the night. He told himself to calm down —that everything was fine, but it didn't work. Panic continued to pump inside him, spurting unhindered through his gullet in a jagged rhythm, making his head ache. He threw a quick glance at the chronometer. 02:45:00. He failed, again, to sleep the night without a sedative.

Stumbling to the front of the house, he plopped down beside a coffee table, curling up on a loom rug his grandmother had made long before his birth. He opened a drawer. Rifled the compartment and extracted a stiff leather pouch. He opened it and pulled out a hypospray.

"Poor dead Kolopak. An Occupier's whore for a daughter and a fragmented mind for a son. What a shame! No one worthy left to carry on the family line."

Chakotay squared his shoulders, refusing the bait. He was ready for the Cardassian's appearance this time, no longer afraid. "Shut up, Seska."

"Make me." Moving to the front of him, she placed the blunt toes of her buskins just beyond his folded knees. "No decent legacy left behind to honor your father in the Concrete World, only bones in a cave. A pile of toothpicks for the carnivores to sharpen their fangs on in the dormant season." She squatted down, leaning back on slim haunches. The crimson spirals of her hair brushed the floor, less than a dozen centimeters from his feet. "Artificially induced placidity won't steer your from the chosen path."

Chakotay yearned to punch her, bite her. Draw her blood. He set his jaw, cleared the hypo, and reloaded. "Neither will that," she jeered. "It's too late. Those drugs need to build up in your system over time to be effective. We both know you haven't been taking them. When was the last time you pumped anything other than a sedative into your bloodstream? Three weeks ago? Four? It's why I'm here. Your mind is slipping. Like on New Zealand. We kept such good company there, together, you and I. I should have known you want me back. Again."

He raised his head, dark orbs hurling trenchant darts of hatred. He mashed the hypo into his skin, staring at her as he squeezed the trigger. Seska clapped her hands and gabbled with glee. "Ooh, good boy, Chakotay! I do so love it when you play the disobedient Maquis."

His rage took charge, bubbling up from his gut into his brain and foaming over until he could hardly see. He threw out his legs, catching Seska unawares and knocked her off-balance. She toppled back and fell, hitting the floor, her head striking the planks with a loud whacking sound that propelled a satisfied grunt of pleasure from his lips. He jumped to his feet. Towering above her, he rammed his foot into her stomach. Her eyes widened on impact, becoming so round; he thought they might pop from their sockets. Red fluid spewed from her mouth as she coughed. It splattered across his raised shin while she tried desperately to speak. He threw down the hypospray. "You are dead!" he shouted. "You are dead and no more!" He reached down and grabbed the legs of the coffee table, using them to drag and swing the heavy piece furniture up over his head. "I am Chakotay of Dorvan V." he declared, ready to reclaim his life. "Child of my father's clan, born from my mother's line, and brother to a true woman. Starfleet has trained me —the Maquis have shaped me. I am a Warrior and a Man. You are nothing but a memory, a hungry Phantasm, and I am tired of being eaten.

"Behlae cin hantcecha!" he spat. "Today I am going to eat you! The table descended. Chakotay shuddered, turning away as wood and meat collided. Flinging his arms in a tight X across his face, his body shaking with emotion and with the rush of adrenaline, he cradled the shells of his ears with his hands, closed his eyes and prayed.

The smell was what brought him back; the stench of the battlefield, the unforgettable odor of charred flesh and scorched metal.

She lay where he had felled her: on the floor of his father's house; her long limbs twitching amid splintered pieces of wood on the rug his grandmother had made. Her cranial head plate smashed in, circuits and wires seared to the rest of her skull. The surrounding black of burnt skin, covering her forehead and remaining cheek, all but, camouflaging one open, sightless blue eye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Parallel Lines: Broken Rhythm, kneipho 2004
> 
>  
> 
> * Dorvan (V): I changed this back from Trebus to Dorvan (V). The Cannon is confusing. Producers reportedly intended Dorvan for Chakotay's home planet. The relaunch first stated Trebus, now it's Dorvan (V), again. Or maybe, it's both. I don't know anymore. I can't keep up.
> 
> 6\. Leaching is a method of washing (harmful amounts of) salt down through soil (i.e. in crop fields) past the root zone.
> 
> 7\. Seska: Carrdassian spy; former crew member of "Voyager" and ex-lover of Chakotay.
> 
> Taylor penned her Chakotay first, but the re-launch is Golden's baby, and she is the last to add to his back-story. Lines' Chakotay hails from Taylor's Trebus; I named his sister after Golden's creation.


	4. Roundabout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Admiral J. ain't the only one who can't escape the past.

Disclaimer: _Star Trek_ and all of its subsequent incarnations, (including _Voyager_ ) are property of CBS Corporation and/or Paramount Pictures. No profit made. No harm intended.

Synopsis for Part 3: Chakotay freaks out and fucks up... A lot.  
Tonight's episode brought to you by, Trigger Happy Jack (Poe).

\------------------------------------

Part 4: Roundabout

Stardate: 56373.303938356 (May 17, 2379, Time: 06:08:32)  
Sacramento, Earth

Kathryn studied her reflection, carefully appraising the woman staring back at her in the bathroom mirror with sharp eyes. Satisfied she had removed all evidence of nocturnal passion from her skin, she returned the dermal regenerator to its designated place in the medicine cabinet. Glancing into the mirror one last time; she patted the metallic bits impaled into her collar and smoothed her hair. "Brand new pips and a bun in the back. At least you look the part of respectable Vice-Admiral, Katie-my-dear,” she said with a wink. Her partially consumed coffee rested in a mug on the shelf above the commode. She didn't need to taste to know it was cold. _Time to make more._

In the kitchen, she piddled about; leveling coffee grounds, heating water for stove-top espresso. She went over her appointment schedule: _A meeting with the Brass at 0800, a lecture in the Amphitheater at Starfleet Academy at 1000 hours, then lunch with Icheb, right after._ A tiny smile curved her lips as she contemplated _Voyager's_ "foster son." He had gotten taller in recent months. His face narrowed; his frame filled out, the changes giving him a more mature appearance, wiping out all traces of the boy he had been in the Delta Quadrant. Starfleet placed him in the care of Commander Reginald Barclay, who was currently encouraging the young man to physically, join the Academy in the fall. (8) Kathryn approved of Reg. Though shy and eccentric, she considered him a friend. Icheb seemed genuinely happy under his care. She told Seven as much during their last live communiqué.

 _Seven._ Brilliant, perplexing, obstinate, vulnerable Seven, whom Kathryn wrenched away from the Borg to spend years, battling for and against in an effort to herd toward a lasting humanity. Seven, whose childhood machines had calculatedly demolished, but, who, now like Icheb, had a chance to live out a normal life.

\------------------------------------

After cooling the pot, her drink was ready. Kathryn drained the caffettiera and snatched up her beverage, drawing hot liquid through greedy lips as she walked into the living room. She sat down behind a simple utility desk and typed a code into the Comm. The successful transfer of communications from her own terminals to Ek'Norval's system, affirming in chunky PADDesque letters with a beep. She checked the stats. Five in total: three standard, two encrypted —both marked, "Sensitive" and "Urgent." The latter pair sent by Tom Paris, from Dorvan V.

Assigned to shuttle Bigwigs to and fro from Earth to DS9, it made sense for the lieutenant to visit friends when in the area. But two red flag communiqués sent to her by a former crewman in under twelve hours? From her XO's home planet? _Why? What is going on?_ Her stomach dropped as she queued up the messages, worrying the pliant flesh of her bottom lip with top teeth until Tom's image appeared. He looked to her the same to her as always, oddly boyish for a man in his thirties. The customary aura of mischief she so closely associated with him, however, notably missing as he stared somberly through her from behind the monitor's flat screen.

His news was far from good. In fact, it shocked her. She had to play the first message twice just to grasp the basics of what he was trying to convey: There had been an incident. Seven was in the hospital, in critical condition. Chakotay was responsible.

The follow-up offered no comfort, only information. Seven was in a coma. Chakotay assaulted her in the middle of the night. Authorities since placed him in a mental care facility as opposed to under arrest. Medical scans revealed he was suffering hallucinations; the result of an inherited cognitive disorder that Chakotay's genetics predisposed him to but was, in infancy, suppressed. Evidently, he suffered a mental break during his confinement on The Island sometime last year. The doctors there had issued prescriptions to control the symptoms, but he had told no one, and for some reason, recently stopped taking his medications.

Kathryn sat stock-still, her stomach aching, her mind transporting back to the Delta Quadrant, to a dreadful time with _Voyager_ trapped in Chaotic Space. Aliens had activated Chakotay's muffled gene in order to communicate with the ship. Gifted him with the ability to relay life-saving information by plunging him into an intense state of hallucinatory madness. Chakotay had not viewed the experience as a gift. He begged her to help him, to reverse what was happening, to find some other method to keep contact with the aliens.

She had stood beside his biobed in sickbay. She had patted his shoulder, convinced him everything would be all right. She assured him the EMH would do his best to re-suppress the gene once the ship was no longer at risk. Persuaded Chakotay to fight his fear until he interpreted the data. There had been no other way to get Voyager out. He saved the crew that day. He saved them all and managed to come away from the experience seemingly little worse for wear…

Blood seemed to drain from Kathryn's body, leaving her attenuated, emotionally brittle. She sprang from her chair. She needed to do something. Arrange for leave. Order transportation. _Anything._

"Kathy." 

Her body tensed, startled by the sound of her name. "Oh." She exclaimed, slumping briefly into the desk. "You startled me." She hit the keypad, stalling Paris' grim likeness in place, her gaze flickering across the room without fully registering Ek'Norval's appearance. She was cold. _When did it become so cold?_ Her teeth were chattering. Her mouth tasted like sand. "You want some tea?" she asked. The query sounded odd. She looked, again, at Tom Paris, at the paralyzed atrocity the monitor presented. "I can make Katheka if you prefer," she offered, "or put together something solid if you want breakfast."(9)

Ek'Norval crossed the room, closing the distance between them in three long strides and wrapped her tightly in his arms.

\------------------------------------

They lay sprawled together on the sofa: an informal tangle of arms and legs; her face pressed against his chest. His robe had slipped open, and she took comfort, resting against the coarse shield of blue the gap exposed.

"I don't normally do this."

"Do what, zletha?"*

"Lose control in front of another." An indistinguishable noise rolled out from deep inside his throat. Wearily, she raised her head. "Flag officers are not permitted to turn on the waterworks. You can check my regulation's PADD. Section Thirty-six, Sub-paragraph C." He made another noise. She let her head fall back onto his chest.

"There is no such regulation." he chided gently. "You are a silly woman." She felt his fingers slide into her hair. Several pins dove for dark spaces between sofa cushions. She closed her eyes. "Was it always like that on your journey?"

"Hmm?"

"When you were lost, were you always so contained? Was there no one on your ship to offer comfort to you?"

A succession of images projected against the sealed walls of her eyelids: A rose, given without expectation on a day after she had almost died. A supportive presence in her darkened quarters, urging her to forgive herself for destroying the Caretaker's Array. An officer on the day he married, glancing from his bride into his captain's eyes as he vowed himself away.

A friend pleading for the restoration of his mind. Seven lying lifeless in a pool of her own blood.

Kathryn shivered. She kissed Ek'Norval lightly on the cheek, separated from him and moiled to her feet. She wiped at her face with the back of her wrist. "I have to go."

He reached for her. "Go? Where?"

“To my office. I need to make arrangements and cancel my appointments. I'll come back to say goodbye after I grab a few things from my apartment. "

"Kathy— "

"You're expected at the Embassy, today. Aren't you?"

"Kathy— "

"The Councillor's press conference —the announcement of your Ambassadorship... Ek'Norval, I— "

"Stop."

She raised her eyebrows at the command, staring down at him, befuddled. There were new creases on his forehead. "Stop?"

"Where do you intend to go?"

“I plan to take the next available warp-ship to Dorvan." she explained, breaking contact.

"Dorvan? Dorvan V?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

She stepped back, unexpected seedlings of unease taking root inside her breast. She squashed them immediately, realizing, probably not for the first time in their relationship, she had made an unfair assumption of knowledge on EK'Norval's part. He might be telepathic, but the Aenar had strict rules against 'reading' individuals without permission. Kathryn hadn't told him what had happened. He hadn't asked her any questions —only held her, allowing her to blubber out her fear and disbelief into the plushy texture of his robe."I should explain. Something's happened."

He looked up at her impassively, eyes glittering strangely in the ashy bleakness of the coming dawn. "The Maquis Captain and your Pet Drone." he stated blandly, "She is injured."

The squashed seedlings inside her sprang to life, re-rooted themselves and grew. Discomfiture bloomed. It felt like a betrayal, being read while unaware. Which made no sense. A moment ago, she assumed he had, and it was fine. Snatching her jacket off the back of the desk chair, she shoved her arms through the sleeves, ignoring the impulse to hurl her empty coffee cup straight at his antenna. "I'll message you once I'm underway."

EK'Norval muttered something unintelligible. Kathryn thought she might have heard him swear. There was a draft as he lunged toward her; movements uncharacteristically brusque. Spidery arms swung hazardously in her direction, causing her to lurch back. "What do you think you are doing?" he charged but did not touch her. "What good do you think you can possibly achieve by scurrying off to Dorvan? Will you wring your hands at her bedside when you get there? Order the doctors to make him well?" He paused, banishing an ugly sneer of disapproval from his face —an expression a seasoned functionary should never wear. "Others need to perform those tasks now, Kathy," he reasoned more smoothly. "Blood keth, Kin born with the right to shoulder intimate burdens unperturbed.** It is not your responsibility anymore. There is no place for you. You need no longer answer for these people. Dorvan is not the Delta Quadrant. There is nothing left for you to do, but wait."

Kathryn ground her teeth, aggravated by his patronizing deportment, her initial sense of fright to force of his objection. Her confused reaction to the knowledge Ek'Norval had read her mind. Schooling her features into place, she pulled at the cuff of her jacket sleeve in a deliberate gesture, her manner that of a pestered celebrity. "You think so, Ek'Norval?" she queried. "For what, another message from Tom?"

"Yes. Do you never think upon the repercussions of your actions?"

She stiffened slightly, moving closer, a little further from the door. "Repercussions?"

"Your Admiralty is nothing more than an effort to please the Public. A way for Starfleet to re-charm a people tired of living under the shadow of the Militia, since the ending of the Dominion War. You have no real power, no impressing 'Fleet responsibilities. You will never receive another promotion. Your current rank as far as you will ever go."

Kathryn swallowed reflexively. She wondered how much else he knew. "It doesn't matter."

He stared at her, gaped openly at her as if she had magically grown a third eye. "How can you say, it does not matter? You are angry, and so you trifle with me, yes? You cannot be this genuinely obtuse. _Voyager_ represents so much; you represent so much to all of this Quadrant and beyond. When your ship emerged from the Borg Conduit, it reminded everyone within the Federation, we have also come through a terrible life-changing experience and survived. That we, as a connected people, like Kathryn Janeway, despite old fears and suffering, live normally again." He held out a decorous hand as if the simple gesture could convince her fall in line alongside his point of view. His countenance so polished, she almost lost her cool façade and laughed out loud.

Ek'Norval shifted uncomfortably. "And what of me? Do you not care how your departure will affect me?"

Kathryn fingered her hair, testing the strength of the bun near the top. There was no point in pretending shedidn't understand his meaning. "The slander mongers will make the most of this, I'm sure. But you can't dangle _Voyager_ as a 'Federal Symbol of Hope' under my nose thirty seconds after lecturing me on how it's members are no longer my responsibility. It's hypocritical and unfair. I'm a living being, Ek'Norval, not an icon. If the possible effect of my public image on your career so important to you, think long and hard about what kind the of message I'll be sending by turning my back on injured crew."

His head whipped around so forcefully; she thought his neck might crack. He was furious again, and no longer trying to hide it.

Kathyrn stared morosely at the bland combinations of cream and beige covering the walls, feeling far from docile, herself, yet, also feeling peculiarly contrite. She didn't want to understand his opposition, but it wasn't as if he didn't have a point. Rumors had a tendency of morphing into scandals with light speed. If the Media chose to make something of her absence from the Councillor’s press conference and the inevitable news of this whole mess on Dorvan, Ek'Norval could, in all probability, be the one left holding a nasty bag filled with innuendo —at a time when he should be celebrating his success.

The image of a prostrate and battered Seven drenched in gore returned, derailing Kathryn's sense of self-reproach. Thin strips of apprehension lashing about its borders, slapped at her like leather kite tails the wind. Her stomach hurt, was busily twisting itself into a complicated knot. She liked Ek'Norval despite their differences. Enough to lie down in the dark with him night after night for months. He had been honest with her from the beginning of their involvement regarding his political ambitions. She would never dream of casting a pall over his career. She wanted him to understand.“For seven years I lived a purgatorial nightmare. I dragged more than a hundred people into the same nightmare with me and ordered they not only survive --but live their lives guided by the same principals by which I lived my own. They spent nearly every day fighting for their existence all because of a decision I made. I was Captain to some, and they followed me out duty, but to the Maquis, at least at first, I was the enemy." He moved as if to say something, but she caught his arm —squeezing it gently. "Without Chakotay's support, they surely would have tried to unseat me in the first year, and I might not be here with you now. Without Seven, the Borg Collective would have assimilated us all, Species 8472 destroyed my ship, or the Hirogen done something, maybe, even worse.(8) I owe those two people my life, the lives of my crew, countless times over. They're my family, and I need to be with them. Even if it is just to wring my hands or to scream at the hospital staff."

"You think I do not know how you feel?" Ek'Norval countered. A sigh escaped him —a weighty sound guilty with relief. "I 'see' you," he confessed, "Into your mind while I am sleeping, and often, many times, now after I wake. You are not capable of 'reaching out' to me. I chose you because you are incapable of reaching out to me, and yet I see you all the same. Do you understand? I see everything. I see your past, your memories, your former hopes, and present fears. I see your dreams. I do not wish for it. I should have the strength and self-discipline to prevent it from happening, to keep you from invading, but still, I see you all the same. You amaze, Kathy. Such a selfless being, and yet so manipulative, so self-involved. You have no idea of what you do me. You have no concept of is like to fall asleep holding a woman you think is yours only to find yourself crushed by her attachment to another life. To wake with the details of her past permeating your reality. You have resigned yourself to me. Not because you deem me worthy, but because your choices have been eliminated." He cupped her chin with a pigmented palm, tilting her face upward to look her squarely in the eye. "You gave them up all by yourself Kathy, in favor of that ship of yours, long before they ever disappeared. _Voyager_ is gone; that life is gone. I am here. Do not abandon what We can build together, for a life that is no more."

She turned her head, removing her chin from his hand. She wanted to tell him he was behaving irrationally, tell him his fears, his jealousy had no foundation. She wanted to tell him they were together because he was marvelous; she dreamed only of him, but he deserved more than ardent prevarication. "I have no idea what to say you. Few beings in life come into relationships without emotional baggage. Granted, most of us don't have to experience our partner's past through telepathy, but your reaction is unnecessary and overblown. I'm not abandoning you. I can't help who I am or what I was. Do I miss the Delta Quadrant? No. Do I think about it sometimes? Yes. Do I miss the people I traveled through it with and, are there things in my past I regret? Absolutely. I care for you, Ek'Norval, a great deal, but I'm going to Dorvan. If you can't accept it, I can only say I'm sorry." 

He bore down at her with fathomless eyes, twin pools of eloquent darkness reflecting her emotions, and filled with his own pain. He volleyed no retort, ending the argument by gathering her close and resting his chin on top of her head. The action made her feel physically small, almost like a little girl. He was such a tall man. It was one of the things that had attracted her to him in the first place, but something she did not deliberate often. How considerable he was, how physically strong. How most times when he enfolded her in his arms, she felt content, watched over. _Loved._

Twining her arms around his waist, she held him, feeling cherished and safe, but, also undeserving and sad. Ek'Norval was sure he was losing her. Kathryn knew it. She could feel it, much in the same way she could feel the dulcifying patting of his hand into her back. His passions seemed to be pulsating out of his body. Out of his body and into hers in a cadent stream. She could feel his fear, dejection, anger, and frustration. His desperation. His emotions surrounded her, became a living entity.

Her brain fell into a fog. She felt incredibly sleepy. Her head, so heavy it would have tipped on her neck and dropped to rest on her own shoulder had she not been leaning against him. She longed to close her eyes.

Then she saw her. Ek'Norval's dead wife from all those years ago. Kathryn slowly came to terms with the fact that she was no longer in the apartment. He had carried her into the past somehow, to Andor(ia), to an infirmary, a parturition chamber, where variegated tapestries depicting scenes of procreation ornamented sterilized walls. A young Aenar female, clung to a green-skinned male praying in one corner. Sorrow dripping from them both like tears, while second female, sky-blue and barely out of girlhood, lay writhing on a narrow birthing cot.

Kathryn was watching Thelees die.

 _Thelees._ Surprisingly petite, almost ethereal, heartrendingly lovely —even with the specter of death looming overhead. Her slanted silvery eyes shimmering with anguish; her enervated body wracked by the contractions of an abortive labor. Ek'Norval knelt beside the bed. Younger, clearly terrified; he ignored the physician wrestling nearby with parochial obstetrical equipment. His wife's frail blue fingers clasped in his, as he murmured words of reassurance before she slipped away from him and died.

\------------------------------------

Kathryn reeled into the present, breaking from Ek'Norval's embrace, floundering across the room; thunderstruck, her throat drier than the Vulcan Dunes. Disjointed emotions coursed though her body. She felt disoriented, enormously confused. Her temples were pounding hard now, pounding so hard she had to think twice before she remembered her own name. Her tongue had grown abnormally thick, swollen, inside her mouth. Something bad had happened. Something had gone horribly wrong. She couldn't remember. _Why can't I remember?_ In a panic, she reached for her phaser, examining the weapon as she removed it from the clip on her belt. Her hand, she noted, in amazement, was an ivory-pink color. It wasn't blue.

Ek'Norval skittered toward her using his torso like a battering ram; slamming into her body making it practically impossible for her to stand. His expression had turned ferine, insistent: his eyes tunneled into her own —willed her not to turn away. She tottered in place, out of the wind, ears ringing. Unable to throw off an appalling sense of déjà vu as he captured her wrists, jerked them up, away from her body, and held them shackled high above her head.

An intense rush of desire crashed over her in a devastating, unexpected swell.

It came from him. Desire —for her, for an intimate connection, a completed understanding. He was projecting it, this need for completion. Need, mixed with dread and rage, with self-loathing, projecting it into her mind.

Kathryn's sense of self temporarily dissolved as he shoved her up against the wall: held her there with his body like a butterfly on a pin. Methodically, he attacked. Telepathically gnawing through the blanketed layers of personal awareness, his wounded psyche chewed up her sense of reason, all sense of personal control. Her back pressed against the hard surface of the wall; her soul open to his probing and spread wide. She stared into his eyes, his presence coursing through her brain, understanding that he was trying to compel her to accept something. Disclose something —something she couldn't comprehend without words as he pushed past her feelings, into the essence of her being. Trying to force her to exchange an un-nameable something he deemed cardinally important, as his consciousness bucked and heaved and trembled within her skull, until she shrieked out in pain, her phaser never falling from her hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Parallel Lines: Roundabout, kneipho 2004, 2015
> 
>  
> 
> (8) Commander Reginald Barclay, a crossover character who originally first appeared in Star Trek: TNG. Largely responsible for establishing long-range communications with Voyager mid-series via the "Pathfinder" Project.
> 
> Andorii Terms:  
> (9) Katheka: An Andorian drink similar to coffee (stimulant – ref. Worlds of Deep Space Nine).
> 
> * Zletha: a flower
> 
> ** Keth -family, smaller clan


	5. Sheet Bend ½, Listless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tonight's episode is brought to you by: ATWA (System Of A Down).

Disclaimer: _Star Trek_ and all of its subsequent incarnations, (including _Voyager_ ) are property of CBS Corporation and/or Paramount Pictures. No profit made. No harm intended.

Synopsis for Part 4: Admiral J. ain't the only one who can't escape the past.  


\------------------------------------

Part 5: Sheet Bend 1/2, Listless

Stardate: 56569.3494101979 (June 27, 2379, Time: 19:30:03)  
Dorvan V Reconstruction Colony, Dorvan Planetary System, Former Demiltarized Zone

It had been forty-three days since "the incident." Fourteen days since his discharge from the institution. Thirteen nights, come and gone, since his transport home to the Village in an unmarked shuttle. A muscle-bound facility attendant glued to his left elbow. His sister had been there to greet him, of course. Met him on the dusty road that led to the house, as she had so many times before when she was small and he only a boy coming home from school. His grown-up sister had waited, then welcomed. Her long brown face shadowed with signs of dolor, an empty satchel of corn meal spreading dust between her fingers. It had shamed him to come home to her like that. To blunder along the familiar, balding road parting the ruins of the Village and meet his grown-up sister, sanatorium goon in tow. Staring up at the sky, as she stared down at the monitoring band encircling his ankle, wishing he could hide among the clouds. Staring up into a sea of white, as his chattering crow-head of a sister listened, with a silent tongue, to an armed stranger outline the terms of his medical probation.

That night he slept in a hammock she had set up for him in the kitchen; the living sections of the house having been secured by his request, while he had been away. Ignoring the blinking message light of the Comm, he had taken his meds and fallen asleep reading a book still dressed in day clothes.

He did not dream.

In the morning, he rose with the dawning of the second sun. He showered briskly, made gruel for breakfast. Spiked it with chilies then ate it sitting on the kitchen counter. Washing down the grainy mixture with sips of strong cold tea, before he headed out into the fields. He did not take down the hammock or store it away. He did not return until after dark.

The following days fell into a pattern of comforting monotony. Shower, gruel, tea, work, meds, sleep.

Every day the same. Every night blank and dreamless.

He continued to ignore the blinking of the Comm, ignore his sister's worried face, the questions of his childhood friends. He pretended not to hear the clucking whispers of the Elders or notice the frightened looks he received from many of the children. He avoided speaking at all about "the incident." And, on the fourteenth day after boarding the ground shuttle bound for home, forty-three days after battering his wife in the throes of a demented rage, he discovered a visitor blocking access to his front door.

\------------------------------------

The afternoon proved to be extraordinarily hot. Chakotay worked hard weeding between the shoots of green that peeked up from beneath the refurbished lushness of the soil. He would have preferred to have spent the day repairing the corral. Fieldwork had never been the favored chore when he was young. His opinion of the activity had not changed much with age, but the corral was nearly finished. The weeding wouldn't wait. After dark, he trotted home. Toes and sandals caked with mud; layers of sweat making him feel grimy; skin crawling for a shift-in-pattern bath.

He did not recognize who it was, at first. Or what, exactly. Perspiration dribbling heavily off his eyebrows, it marred his vision; the salty liquid a stinging blur on tips his lashes and in his eyes. He thought it might be an animal, so still the figure was, perched atop of what looked like a thick shrub or maybe a broken piece of rotted log. Only, he had cleared all debris away when he brought his bride home from Earth some months before. Straining purposefully into the darkness, he made out a human form as he trekked closer, the figure's femininity growing ever more apparent beneath the wavering light of an old lamp fixed above the door. "Sekaya," he called, thinking the woman must be his sister. He raised his arm, waving broadly. "Ola. Bix a bel?" (10)

She didn't move.

"Ba'ax yan?!" he asked her, his stomach rumbling. He spoke out a little louder, hoping she had brought him something to eat. He was hungry for a change.

Again, she didn't move.

He thought that perhaps she had not heard him. That, possibly, he stood too far away for her to hear. He trundled in a bit closer, calling out, again, even louder than before.

She continued to do nothing.

He scowled at her, growing impatient. Her abeyance, annoying him, collapsing his composure. It was hot, and he was tired —his back chaffing, painful and itchy. "Sak' in paach'!" he bellowed, unable to contain himself. "Coten uaye! Beya'! Aanteni! "

Finally, she stirred, rising tentatively. Shaking her head in slow motion, as if waking from a long sleep, she shouted back, her accent flavorless and broken, "Min na'atik!"

She didn't understand him? Well then, she couldn't be his sister or any other _èc'up_ from the Village that he knew... Unless she was playing a joke. Sekaya pulled pranks on him all the time when they were kids. He pursed his lips, forcing out a steady stream of air. "Yan kano'ob te'lo'!" he warned, pointing near her feet. (10) She hated snakes. That would fix her. He started to feel better, his back no longer plaguing him. He waited, fists on hips for her response.

She didn't budge.

That was definitely not Sekaya. The mere thought of snakes near her feet would have been enough to send her into a screeching panic. He wiped the sweat dripping from his brow, trying to figure out who the woman was. Peering through the dim, he noticed she wore her hair loose, not braided. It fell past her shoulders, much longer than his sister's and even though he assumed the color to be affected by the eerie trembling of the obsolescent lamp, looked as if it might contain shades of red. Chakotay shivered violently despite the fading heat.

Setting forward, endeavoring to keep his rattled nerves from morphing into a full-fledged state of panic, he reminded himself that he had not missed a single dose of his medications since the night he had "gone away." He moved slowly, cautiously, his blood-beat an accelerated throb between his ears, unease creeping steadily along his skin: a scorpion in the dark. He stopped short, once he recognized her face.

"So it's you, " he said, his tone remarkably homogeneous. Walking to her, he leaned down and picked up the metal portmanteau she had been sitting on while she waited. "Are you planning on staying here with me, tonight?"

\------------------------------------

Barefoot, clad in the worn fabric of a well-loved jersey and an old pair of drawstring pants, Chakotay entered the kitchen. He had taken a shower, cleaning away the filth and prickling rawness of the afternoon, but not the fatigue. Bone-tired, filled with apprehensive resignation, he sallied forth to face what he knew laid in wait for him: Starfleet's illustrious Kathryn Janeway, his once much-desired would-be-lover slash compadre, and comrade-in-arms. Mentor to, and self-designated protector of the Borg turncoat aide-de-camp à la Tertiary Adjunct of Unimatrix Zero-One: Annika Hansen... aka Seven of Nine.

After exchanging a bizarre and awkward set of the standard pleasantries (followed a mammoth bout of unpalatable silence), Kathryn murmured something about "Sekaya providing dinner," patted the canvas bag at her side, and more or less directed him to hit the shower. Under normal circumstances, he would have offered to help her set out the meal. At least, pointed her to where he kept the flatware and clean dishes, but he couldn't remember the last time anything in his life had been normal. So he quietly complied. Partially because he knew he smelled as about as good as a three-day-old carcass picked over by jackals. But mostly because, despite her forced attempt at routine conversation, she visibly looked about as sad and troubled as he felt numb, inside. He had absolutely no idea as to what it was he should say.

He was certain, though, that she was planning to say plenty. Taken for granted that she would use his time in the shower to formulate her thoughts before she served up her outrage at his monstrous betrayal, over a plate of his sister's famous Cactus Leaves and Eggs. He began to think it would have boded better for him had it been Tuvok or the EMH he found standing in front of his house on this hot night. Phaser set to kill pointed at his chest. Or maybe an angry Icheb decked out in full Collective regalia, conversion tubules extended, ready to righteously assimilate the living shit out of his ass.

Or, even, another visit from Seska.

He was a crazy, good-for-nothing wretch, and he'd blown everything to Hell. His calamity reflected in the subtle hunch of his former captain's shoulders, the defined sharpness of her cheekbones beneath the translucence of her pale skin. For the first time in over thirty days, fourteen of those days spent living physically sealed off from the horror of his actions by squatting in the kitchen, the magnitude of his sin began to claw through the rigid callous built up by his medications.

And more than anything, he wished that he would die.

"Chakotay." His name came out harshly, grabbing his attention, pulling him away from his spiritless revere. He stared at Kathryn blankly, not quite comprehending, his morbid thoughts struggling to make the inevasible expedition back to reality. She held a plate piled high with food less than a dozen centimeters from his face, her slate blue gaze inspecting his haunted brown one. Prepared to battle her way into a world of illusionary fantasy and physically yank him out of it if she deemed it a necessity. "Take it." It was an unmistakable order.

"Take it?" He repeated dumbly, drawing back. His mind zeroed in on her features; made her his focus.

"It's hot."

"Hot?"

"Yes... Chakotay, my fingers are burning." He snatched the plate. Her face registered approval, the nimbleness of his response appearing to assure her he was lucid. She passed him another plate, also laden down with food. "That one's for me... Go ahead and start eating," she said, waving a Lilliputian hand, her manner decidedly less gruff. "Sit down."

Setting his dual burden on the tabletop, he took his customary place beside the hearth. His little sister had pulled out all the stops, he realized. He looked across the room at the colorful array of artfully prepared dishes left warming on the stove —in small clay pots resting on the counter, and then at his own victuals. She'd made all his childhood favorites: New Corn-Stuffed Tamales, Spicy Filled Tortillas with Pumpkinseed Sauce, Cinnamon and Coffee Poached Pears with Vegetable Cream. Even a sweet-smelling pit-baked pork dish for his meat-eating guest, and more. Chakotay felt the muted stirrings of what he could almost describe as pleasure. The sensation quickly routed by a sudden embarrassment at being discovered living as a frightened hermit hiding from the world inside the kitchen. For once, he felt grateful his mother was no longer alive. She would have boxed his ears, good, had she but known.

The kitchen had been her heart while he was growing up, the center of the family home. Every intimate celebration had begun with the making of a meal, here. Every household meeting held within its walls. He learned to cook and to tell jokes at her side with Sekaya next to the stove; to grind meal using the millstone kept on the shelf on the wall; to work wood; weave nets, and sharpen tools beside his father on the bench in the corner.

Kathryn seated herself next to him, diagonal to that same bench, a tall drink in each hand. An amber oblation, an alcoholic, he assumed. "Here." She handed him a glass. "Antarian Cider."

"Cider?"

She nodded, placing her free hand lightly on his shoulder. Her palm was warm, persuasive. "Come on. You look like you could use it."

"Cider. My cider?”

"The last of the bottles purchased courtesy of the Trans-stellar Rally, 2377. You left them in the Cargo Bay."

He took a sip. It tasted just as he remembered, mellow and delicious. The unassuming flavor would compliment their dinner well.

She pointed to a pile of chopped red and green on the edge of his plate. "Is that relish?"

"Yes... Xni Pec."

She mouthed the words, committing them to memory.

"It's mostly tomatoes and a few bland chilies. Very mild," he specified, hesitating before gesturing toward a neat grouping of triangular-shaped dumplings. "Try it with those."

Obligingly, she fished a few dumplings off his plate, smearing a healthy portion of relish on top par his suggestion, and took a bite. She started coughing right away, choking on the biting heat of the combination. "They're good," she managed weakly, reaching for her cider and glaring at him. "But I think I'll steer clear of the relish."

He didn't laugh. Knew she expected it, had engineered it so he could but didn't want to. Surrounded by familial comforts, by her painfully amiable manner while waiting for the proverbial roof to cave in, was surreal —too inter-comparable to his hallucinations, like living in a waking dream. He felt like a zombie. Playing at life, but not truly alive.

She leaned forward, in typical dinner-Kathryn-listening-mode, balancing on one elbow, pointy chin in hand. "What do you call those things, anyway?"

"Black Bean Bird Beaks. Grandmother taught Mother how to make them right after she married Father. In turn, Mother taught both Sekaya and me."

"Really?"

"Really. They were our father's favorite," he revealed tonelessly, not knowing why. "He could cook well but didn't like to do it all that much, himself, you see."

"Sounds like a person I could easily relate too."

He maundered on, "I'm not so certain. Kolopak was a complicated man, wise, stalwart... generous, but often stubborn and sometimes backward in his think—" Chakotay snapped his jaw closed, regaining self-control. It wasn't right to speak like this, not here, not so frankly of a good man who had already made the journey into the Next World. The whole situation was inappropriate when he thought about it. Overly intimate. _Private._ He tried to minimize the damage, adding quickly, "Sekaya disagrees, of course, and will tell you so in front of me. She understood him better. Her opinion is more balanced, not colored by recollections of a disenchanted youth."

Like a naughty boy under the watchful eye of Teacher, he fidgeted in his seat, shaving bits of yellow cornmeal off the sides of his half-eaten tamale with the edge of a butter knife. It all seemed so absurd. Yet, here they sat, _Voyager's_ famous Command Team, behaving as if nothing at all had gone awry. Why Kathryn didn't take her dinner fork and stab him with it in the eye, he honestly didn't know. He needed it to end.

As they rose to clear the dishes, she turned to him and said, "I unsealed the dining room. And the living room. The back rooms, as well. Sekaya gave me the codes." Her jaw was tight, her face, unreadable. She had chosen to challenge, had even named a second.

Chakotay nearly cried with relief. He mustered the proper reaction. "You had no right."

"I need a place to sleep, tonight. I doubt there's enough room in your swinging bed for two." She brushed past him to the hammock. Tried to lift the heavy tangle from its hooks.

"I didn't ask you here. There is no reason for you to be here."

"Seven needs you."

He shot her a look that clearly showed he thought that she'd gone mad. "I am the last thing Seven needs." He presented his back, then moved to the sink. Turned on the taps and watched the water gush out in a continuous stream. Fought holding the inevitable in, even as he exhaled it out. "How is she?"

"Better, now that she's awake. She's recuperating well, thanks to her nanoprobes. Long-term progress looks good. No lasting damage." Chakotay slumped forward, nearly getting wet before turning off the water. Kathryn stood more or less back to back with him as she continued, her voice dropping to the point where he had to strain to hear. "She doesn't understand, Chakotay. I don't understand."

He immediately curdled. "I went berserk. Tried to kill her. There's not a whole lot more to understand, Kathryn."

She ignored his flippancy, resumed her struggle with the hooks and woven ropes. "You haven't responded to her communiqués, Chakotay. She needs for you to talk to her. Why won't you talk to her? Why won't you talk to anyone? B'Elanna, Ayala, Sekaya. Seven. Me." The hammock hit the floor. Kathryn stubbed her toe as she attacked it with her boot. "Damn it." She reached down, began to rub her injured foot. "You've shut everybody out. It's a repeat of New Zealand. And that scares everybody. You're in trouble, and we all want to help you." Her boot hit the floor, and she advanced, pointing rudely at him for emphasis, "This time, Mister, you damn well are gong to let somebody in!"

"Why don't you go home, Admiral?"

Fleetingly, she studied him as if deciding her next move before darting back across the room to her all but empty canvas bag. Riffling through it until she had unearthed what she wanted, her eyes flashed a warning, letting him know that she'd had enough, that this was duel she planned to win. From the bag, she pulled a pad, brandished it like a weapon. Held it up so he could see it —her expression deadly serious. "Chakotay, Seven is divorcing you." His demeanor did not change. "Don't tell me it's what you want?" She shook her head. "No, this isn't what you want. It is?! "Her face fell, disbelieving. "Oh, you bastard. You sorry, stupid bastard."

She was right. He was a bastard. _A sorry, stupid bastard._ It was about time that she noticed.

Kathryn rushed over to him, losing her look of calculation. Her cheeks flushed as she moved in much too close for comfort, waving the pad, tauntingly underneath his nose. "Then, by all means, let me help you." Her susurrations were low and gritty. The verbal swordsman in her shrinking even as the angry woman in her started to expand. He couldn't catch a proper breath. The room was shrinking, her passion a palpable, crowding thing. A puffing heat drubbing on his neck and on his chest. "Here it is. Do it, Chakotay. Break her heart. Give me your thumbprint." 

His ears were buzzing, the pad waving in his face. It was a dare he had been unwittingly waiting for; wanted. He didn't need to be encouraged. He grabbed her wrist and squeezed, like Seska in his nightmare, using force to try to make Kathryn drop the pad. She gasped, looking dazed but held on, squirming; twisting around until he applied more pressure on her fragile little wrist. He employed his other hand; picked her fingers off the pad one. Seven loves you!" It was an accusation. She rubbed her injured wrist as he let go. Her head low, as he placedhis thumb into the cradle.

"Seven loves you!" It was an accusation. She rubbed her injured wrist as he let go. Her head low, as he placed his thumb into the cradle.

"Seven doesn't even know me, anymore."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Parallel Lines: Sheetbend 1/2 kneipho 2004 
> 
> 10\. Yuacatac Maya Translations:
> 
> èc'up woman
> 
> Bix a bel? How is your road?
> 
> Ba'ax yan? What is there (to eat)?"
> 
> Sak' in paach. My back itches.
> 
> Coten uaye Come here
> 
> Beya' This way
> 
> aanteni! Help (me.)
> 
> Yan kano'ob te'lo'. There are snakes there.
> 
> Min na'atik! I don't understand. (I don't get it!)


	6. Sheet Bend 2/2, Between the Devil and the Deep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our hero walks a lonely road.

Disclaimer: _Star Trek_ and all of its subsequent incarnations, (including _Voyager_ ) are property of CBS Corporation and/or Paramount Pictures. No profit made. No harm intended.

Synopsis for Part 5: J and C dine in, and disagree.  
Tonight's episode brought to you by, Needs (Collective Soul). 

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Part 6: Sheet Bend 2/2 Between the Devil and the Deep

Stardate: 56569.522418823 (June 27, 2379, Time: 21:00:59)  
Dorvan V Reconstruction Colony, Dorvan Planetary System, Former Demilitarized Zone 

Outside he walked, unconcerned that she would follow. Serving together for so long had taught them both to give each other a wide berth when emotions ran too high. They had their share of confrontations over the years, but physical violence was never a common element in his relationship with Kathryn. Or with most of the women, he had known throughout his lifetime —recent history excluded (and if one discounted a number of his associations formulated during his stint in the Maquis). Then again, he would be the first to admit he no longer recognized himself. It was a byproduct of his stay in New Zealand, this new confusion. 

_New Zealand, rehabilitation still smells like Perdition._

Chakotay ceased walking long enough to pick a stick up off the road. He drew a circle with it around a group of pebbles in the dirt, recalling the triumphant, public fanfare surrounding _Voyager's_ return to Earth.

\------------------------------------

He was ill-prepared for the intensity of media coverage, the onslaught of attention that subsequently focused on his incarceration. The end result having had a profound effect not only on his state of mind but also on his placement within the gates of the Colony. He entered New Zealand a high profile celebrity: a well-known insurrectionist who had dropped his principles to redress in the colors of Starfleet. Housed within a large population, with many serving time for war-related offenses, made him a walking target. The Island, though well-meaning and progressive, was not equipped to prevent his harassment. His isolation, a reasonable action implemented within weeks of his arrival by authorities to ensure his protection.

Chakotay preferred the beatings. Though they had done much to break his spirit, he accepted what they represented. Status for the unmentionable, power for the impotent, for the acrimonious few railing against survival within a caged environment, living life determined by choices made —good or bad. Beings defined by consequences, without freedom. Some with nothing left to lose, and others with everything to prove.

Like him.

\------------------------------------

Captain Janeway's first official orders from Starfleet when arriving in the Alpha Quadrant, were:

1.) Confine Ms. Hansen to the Cargo Bay.

2.) Inform the ex-drone that her right to Federation citizenship had fallen forfeit, when her parents quit Federation space in the name of Science, to study the Borg.

It was no secret that Seven once held a position of importance in the Queen's Collective. If Starfleet had elected to detain her indefinitely or worse, there would have been nothing anyone could have done to prevent it. Janeway took the news in stride, however, conferencing with her First Officer in private prior to joining him the Cargo Bay. There, she performed a hasty wedding and the drone's detainment officially began.

While technically still considered an outlaw at the time, Chakotay had been born to a Nation, which existed within the boundaries of the Federation, yet was abandoned to shortsighted political policies preceding the War. With the defeat of the Dominion, officials then chose to re-establish ties with that same Nation. All tribe members, whatever their legal status (including spouses and their children) were thereupon, re-granted the same rights and defenses offered to any other legitimate citizen. Hence, Seven, through marriage, acquired a lawful and immediate measure of protection from the more devious elements hidden within Starfleet bureaucracy, until a more conventional form of Federation citizenship could be permanently procured.

But not from the warped fantasies of her new husband's damaged mind.

It all seemed so unfair.

Captain Janeway's first official orders from Starfleet when arriving in the Alpha Quadrant, were:

1.) Confine Ms. Hansen to the Cargo Bay.

2.) Inform the ex-drone that her right to Federation citizenship had fallen forfeit, when her parents quit Federation space in the name of Science, to study the Borg.

It was no secret that Seven once held a position of importance in the Queen's Collective. If Starfleet had elected to detain her indefinitely or worse, there would have been nothing anyone could have done to prevent it. Janeway took the news in stride, however, conferencing with her First Officer in private prior to joining him the Cargo Bay. There, she performed a hasty wedding and the drone's detainment officially began.

While technically still considered an outlaw at the time, Chakotay had been born to a Nation, which existed within the boundaries of the Federation, yet was abandoned to shortsighted political policies preceding the War. With the defeat of the Dominion, officials then chose to re-establish ties with that same Nation. All tribe members, whatever their legal status (including spouses and their children) were thereupon, re-granted the same rights and defenses offered to any other legitimate citizen. Hence, Seven, through marriage, acquired a lawful and immediate measure of protection from the more devious elements hidden within Starfleet bureaucracy, until a more conventional form of Federation citizenship could be permanently procured.

But not from the warped fantasies of her new husband's damaged mind.

It all seemed so unfair.

But not from the warped fantasies of her new husband's damaged mind.

It all seemed so unfair.

\------------------------------------

Chakotay resumed walking until he came to a place where the road doubled back toward the Village, away from the fields and above the lake, feeling like a snotty child. Adults understood how useless it was to think of life in terms of what was fair. He tried to play the hero. Only, it hadn't worked. He was not the kind of the man Seven needed. Dedicated and brave, qualified by birth for the job as her protector, it hadn't been enough. He'd lost too much of himself to New Zealand. Lost faith. Lost the opportunity for the two of them to create a functioning relationship. What kind of life they could have built together, he'd never know.

Looking down, his eyes drifted over the curving border of the road —over the edge —down the sloping stretch of earth that gradually leveled off and softened into the unseen shimmer of crimson sand that made up the beach. He rocked side to side, redistributing his weight from one foot to the next, the unrelenting surface of the road harassing the tender soles of his feet. Gingerly, he pivoted, away from the muting grade, to stare through the dark back at the house. The lights were on; Kathryn inside. Waiting up to talk what she thought of as sense into him, no doubt, in the kitchen, probably with a freshly brewed pot of coffee for the two of them to share. He closed his eyes. Tried to decide whether to make his way to the lake. Pictured the widespread circumference of placid cool that lay less than a few hundred meters away.

He should go back to the house, to Kathryn —to talk and to listen. She had traveled all this way to see him. Left her responsibilities at Starfleet and her lover behind to come and try to make sense out of the misery Chakotay inflicted on them all. He thought again of Seven, his wife, soon-to-be-no more. Of how much he once hated her, for her Borgness, her haughty superiority. The wedge her adolescent neediness seemed to drive between captain and commander. Between the person whose encumbrances he had dedicated his every effort into diminishing, and himself, once upon a time.

If his vision had been clearer then, and not clouded by prejudice, he would have discounted Seven's borgified veneer much sooner instead of wallowing in hatred. Unlike Kathryn, who had dismantled the machinery without so much as a thought, and offered a second chance at life to the frightened creature residing inside.

Chakotay opened his eyes and told himself to turn back. Turn back, brave his demons, unbind his soul and offer up an explanation. He owed Seven that much after everything he had put her through. He sacrificed their future for a present that jumped track. Nonetheless, if he explained it all, explained it all to her through Kathryn —to Kathryn, the specifics of his family madness. If he exposed the ranting contorted gibberish, the clanging noise inside his head, in such a way that managed to make sense to either woman —let alone to himself, would it make any difference? Chakotay was afraid it would.

He really did not want to try.

Still, Kathryn was waiting for him. Poised to untangle the Gordian knot he had created from the threads of her carefully laid-out plans. Kathryn was waiting. Ready to take on another of his screwed-up burdens, smooth away his mistakes, this time as self-appointed Go-between. Kathryn was waiting. Out, not to save him from the wreckage of a burned-out shuttle or the mental stratagems of a maniacal Bajorian fanatic, but to him save him from himself.

Kathryn was waiting. Ever beside him, ever by his side, even in the Alpha Quadrant, shouldering his burdens as advocate and more... So much more, once upon a time.

Chakotay bit the inside of his cheek, and tasted blood.

Once upon a time, she had been the polestar in his life, and he placed his beating heart in trust between her hands. Once upon a time, he dared hope that, someday, _Voyager_ would break free of the Delta Quadrant, Kathryn would shake loose from the bonds of her command, and offer her heart to him in exchange.

Once upon a time was a long time ago and seemed, all in all, much too far away...

Chakotay vaulted off the road, tripping down the coarse slope onto the beach. He broke into a run, ignoring his discomfort as he raced past a familiar grouping of trees that rose up in a line and served as border to the lake. He ran without stopping. Feet, sinking into the sand, leaving half-circle shaped impressions behind him as they lifted, the impressions deepening and falling further apart as he increased his speed. His shirt landed somewhere on the beach as he continued to run. His pants heaping disregarded beside a gnarled tree trunk in two small hops, as he raced across sand and dove into the waiting water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *UFP: United Federation of Planets


	7. Ten Years Before the Flood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tonight's episode is brought to you by, Kissing You (Des'ree --Romeo and Juliet Soundtrack, 1998).

Disclaimer: _Star Trek_ and all of its subsequent incarnations, (including _Voyager_ ) are property of CBS Corporation and/or Paramount Pictures. No profit made. No harm intended.

Title: Parallel Lines

Author: kneipho  
Beta: My Man, Godfrey  
Rating: MA  
Fandom: VOY, AU (Non-Canonical)  
Character/Pairing Codes: J/C/7, J/m, f/m/m/f with sporadic appearances by/ and with references to most of the usual (supporting) _Voyager_ Suspects.  
Spoiler Alert: Misc. episodes throughout both _Voyager_ and _Enterprise's_ runs, also _TNG's Violations_ and _Star Trek: Nemesis_.

Synopsis for Part 6: Our hero walks a lonely road.

\------------------------------------ 

"The grave's a fine and private place,  
But none, I think, do there embrace."  
To His Coy Mistress  
—by Sir Andrew Marvell

-v-v-v-v- 

Part 7: Ten Years Before the Flood

Stardate: 56487.58539446999 (June 27, 2379, Time: 23:14:53)  
Dorvan V Reconstruction Colony, Dorvan Planetary System, Former Demilitarized Zone

He had been gone a long time, much too long in her opinion. The coffee she had made was at least an hour old. She tried not to give into her growing fear. It was Chakotay, after all. He would return. She just pushed too hard in her vexation, and he had left when the situation became more than he could handle at the time. It was his way. _A good thing._ He would walk through the door soon enough, calmer, ready to reason. All she had to do was wait.

She had never seen him quite like this, however, even during their worst days in the Delta Quadrant. Depression was purportedly her specialty, not his, and she was unsure of how to proceed. Sekaya had tried to warn her. His despondency alarmed her to the extreme.

There was a noise, a faint shuffling sound. She drew in a quick breath from her seat at the table, raising her head, anchoring her toes around the front legs of her chair to keep from rushing to the door to see if he returned. The shuffling grew louder, was immediately followed by an angry snarl and the earsplitting chatter of wild rodents. Dropping her head to her forearm, which lay immobile —like a dead skink, across the worn surface of the table, she forced down a staccato flaring of disappointment. The chattering continued for another minute or so before finally dissipating. The animals moved on. The scratching of protracted claws against the weathered planks of the front porch ending abruptly. All other sounds faded into the still of the night, and she was left listening only to the sound of her breath.

Inaction, the breeding ground of perseveration, was a place she never felt comfortable visiting for long. With a frustrated sigh, she rose, deciding to busy herself by settling in. She deposited her luggage into the largest of the rooms at the back of the house. (The only room Chakotay had not previously converted from a traditional place of rest into a Borg Alcove, used as a workshop, or study). Then, sat down on the edge bed, as she kicked off her boots. Socks, slacks, and shirt soon followed, her arms and legs practically sighing in relief as she exposed them to air. Briefly, she remained, sitting in tableau on the bed, trying to appreciate the sensation of cooling down. Her hair gathered in one hand away from her neck; head angled toward the inside of her arm. Her natural inclination to investigate her surroundings was decidedly absent. Alone in the house, Chakotay's house, alone the bedroom he had undoubtedly shared with his young wife, made her like an interloper.

Only the room, itself, seemed to be waiting, anticipating her inspection, calling her to uncover intimate secrets she had no right to explore.

The rodents returned and started up again, this time, to scuffle beneath the bedroom window. They began to screech at one another, hiss and spit intermittently, growl and grind teeth. She reached for the travel canister to retrieve her nightgown, attempting to focus on the simple task of changing clothes. Focus on something other than the dreadful, growing, grating noise as she stripped off the remaining vestiges of her clothing —plain white cotton fabric replacing all.

The animals, thoroughly absorbed in their wretched squall, continued to play ill-trained musician on the tightly wound strings of her fraying nerves. She covered her ears, tried to blot out the sounds. The grunts and the squealing kept on, the territorial squabbling elevating not only in volume, but in pitch. Near impossible to block out, it left her skin feeling as if the inner layers were peppered with bits of broken glass. Unable to stand it any longer, she threw open the window and shouted, "Shut up you foul monsters, or I'll come out there with a phaser and blast you into dust!"

Silence, venerated and euphonious, reigned supreme.

"I'm not sure that would be altogether wise." Chakotay's voice broke through the new-found silence from behind. "This is dry country and a stray blast could start a fire."

Kathryn leaped away from the window and around to face him, only to encounter the door somewhat ajar. She scurried across the room, ushered him in.

His hair was wet, slicked back as if he had taken another shower, but he wore the same tatty garb as before, minus the shirt. His pants, turned inside out, were now badly wrinkled and crusted, here and there, with what appeared to be red sand. He held out a modest bi- metal cube covered with a mesh-like screen in one hand. "It's an Atmospheric Control Unit," he said. "Antediluvian by Starfleet standards, like most things, here, but it'll take the edge off the heat."

She moved in for a better view. He smelled of the outdoors: faintly algal, and of some unrecognized, indigenous, bloom. Furtively, she took stock: canvasing the copper-bronze fingers, the wrist of his extended arm for signs of injury; the forearm; bicep; the work-hardened span of his abdomen and chest. She was relieved as she found none. She wanted to shout at him, shake him, hug him close, then maybe tie him to a chair, but that would hardly be appropriate. Not to mention, Chakotay was a man of pride. It would not do for him to know she worried.

"Press the red button on top to increase air output," he instructed. "The blue and green ones regulate temperature and air flow."

She took the cube, searching his face, her own visage carefully neutral. "Those animals outside. What are they?"

"Nocturnal Scavengers, indigenous to the planet. They're harmless as long as you don't get too close."

"Are they always so loud?"

"Yes. They don't usually venture this close to the house. They aren't fond of humans, but it's their mating season and the males tend to be less cautious. A good shout is enough to scare them away. I don't think they'll come back tonight."

"Good." One corner of her mouth lifted in satisfaction. He nearly smiled back. Almost, but not quite. 

It broke her heart. The cube slipped from her fingers. It blundered loudly to the floor; the clattering sound of it jarring —out of place in the quiet, killing whatever sense of ease burgeoned between them.

Chakotay cleared his throat, bringing himself up to his full height. He backed into the doorway. His broad physique, virtually eating up the empty space inside the frame as he settled into a practiced stance: shoulders straight, feet apart, hands clasped behind his back. "There are extra blankets in the closet though I can't imagine that you'll need them." His vocals were disciplined, complanated. His chocolate gaze fixed dead ahead, not on her.

Kathryn fortified herself with a ridiculously arid intake of air. She understood what he was doing, threatening to shut her out completely in a simply regimented, but deceptively innocuous way that was unnecessary and, all-too-familiar. It was opening step of an old routine. One she had choreographed herself in the Delta, using inferred Starfleet Protocol as the working blueprint to distance _Voyager's_ Command Team from their feelings for each other. _Don't make me do this,_ she thought, sadly. _Not this way._

He'd jumped her cue. She'd have to join him on the floor. "You know why I am here, Chakotay?" she posed, suddenly “all business,” as she hijacked the moment.

He responded with a curt nod.

She drew no quarter and continued, her tone both arbitrary and brusque, "Our EMH has devised a treatment that should permanently re-suppress the gene causing your hallucinations. The procedure is relatively non-invasive and will be performed at the Whispering Man Mental Heath Facility on Betazed. You will complete twenty-five, mandatory weeks of intense on-site psychological therapy in lieu of probation. After which, you will be evaluated. If your brain scans show no further signs of abnormal activity, you will be released back into the Community-At-Large...I have been granted title as your temporary custodian until we arrive on Betazed. Lieutenant Paris will serve as pilot and make the necessary adjustments to your anklet to allow you to travel before he flies us out."

He remained in the doorway: parade rest, refusing to look at her, glaring at a holo picture mounted on the wall behind her head. His pulse ticked furiously beneath his jaw, his expression one of choler, grief, and rebellion, all combined. It was a blessing he hadn't forced her from the dwelling or cut and run. She stayed the course. Pushed at the soldier in him, a Starfleet captain upbraiding her factious commander, her words coming out intentionally caustic, "This whole venture is strictly voluntary, but you aren't stupid. This is not the life you're meant to lead. Sekaya has already packed you a bag. We leave at 0700:00. That's in 6 hours. You might want to get some sleep."

Chakotay offered little more than the same murderous expression in reply, the taut muscles of his arms and shoulders vibrating imperceptibly with self-contained insurgency.

Kathryn picked the ACU up off the floor and chucked the cube onto the bed. It bounced up, then down, rolling a few times before taking refuge at the foot of the mattress. She decided to join it and sat down, palms and fingers placed on the outsides of her thighs. Her nightgown billowed outward, landed in a gather between her knees. The casual intimacy hinted at --by her attire, so glaringly at odds with her demeanor, it contributed to an unwelcome, creeping sense of emotional bankruptcy. She clamped her legs together, felt the fabric bunch up in-between.

The room enclaving them seemed to mobilize, resounding his silence. It ricocheted off the objects within, composing in-articulated songs to her. Boxing gloves, dangling from their laces on a nail beside the window, hummed with a corn-husk doll mobile tacked into the ceiling above the bed. A classic novel, bound in leather, warbled mutely from the nightstand —a book he'd borrowed long ago; a gift from Mark, a book of hers. The room, like Chakotay's quarters on _Voyager_ , like his house, spoke volumes. The items in it held more than repeated stories, more than just the memories of the person suffering in front of her.

Kathryn conceded to a truth: something more than Seven's shadow had kept her from nosing around.

She had grown to depend on him, to trust him through a necessary distance. Dictated the terms of their friendship through it, taken from him without giving back because of it. And, to this day, he had accepted it —even though the action sheared away the roots of who he was. All so she would never have to ask.

Distance no longer served a purpose.

"Why are you still standing there like that, Chakotay?" she exacted, rancorously. "We've danced your little dance; I've bully-ragged you, and now we're done. Are waiting for me to dismiss you? Is that it? Well, I won't. I don't have that power, nor the right to do that to you, or for you, anymore. Someone pointed that out to me recently. It was upsetting, but it turned out to be true. Irksome, but freeing as I think on it, and kind of scary. I can say to you exactly what I think and feel, not what I presume I should." The admission left her sheepish, but she foraged on. "I lied to you earlier when I said I didn't understand. I know exactly what you're doing, exactly how you feel. You've done something you deem unforgivable. Something you can't live with. It follows you about, hanging on your heels, dragging you down so you can barely walk. I went through it in the Delta Quadrant, remember? A time or two after I deliberately got us lost.

“You want to punish yourself," she asserted, hunching forward, placing her weight onto her elbows, into the determination to do right by him, by them both, her hands folding into her lap. "You don't think you deserve to be happy. Maybe you don't. What I think is immaterial and not for me to judge."

He continued louring at the picture on the wall. A propulsion of red seeping up through the cords of his neck and staining his cheeks, the only sign her monologue hit home.

It wasn't enough.

Kathryn sprang from the bed, lodging herself in front of him and gripped him by the shoulders. His eyes widened, his body stooping toward her as she arched back —hailing him to look her. His mouth worked inaudibly for a few seconds, his forehead wrinkling, compressing the inky, tattooed triangle above his left eye. Words managed to escape him in a rheumatic surge, "The wound must be honored." (11))

They imbued her with frustration, with hope and fear. "Okay. Go ahead. Honor the wound. By all means, honor the wound until Earth's moon turns to cheese or the stars all burn out of the sky. But do it properly, with your mind and body fully intact. Otherwise, you'll merely perpetuate a lie."

She released him, groping for what she should do next. Her hands were shaking, her knuckles turning white as she balled her fingers into fists. She bumbled to the bed, plunked back down on the edge of it, striving for self-ascendancy. "You think this is solely about you? And Seven? It's not." She raised a clenched fist, pushed it up through the air, striking uselessly at the crinkly artifact suspended above. "Sekaya deserves more than this after everything she's lived through. She lost her mother and father to the Dominion. Then you, only to be held captive by Cardassians. She's finally getting her life together, and you give her this?

"...What about Tom? He should be home right now, instead of waiting out here for you to come around. At the rate you have us all going, Miral will be a grown woman before he sees his daughter again... And B'Elanna?" She laughed, mirthlessly, a bitter peal in her ears."There are a lot of words I can think of to describe you Chakotay, but 'selfish'? This is new..." She pointed at the picture on the wall —a still-life of the senior staff, taken on the Bridge, her voice rising with a sudden realization, "Command doesn't end along with the mission. Our people are trying to reconstruct lives in the Alpha Quadrant. Family members died while we were gone, husbands and wives remarried. So much loss. Our crew still looks to us as to lead. They need to see you win. I need to see you win. After everything we've dealt with, the sacrifices made —everything you and I have and haven't been to each other, you owe me." She grabbed at the folds of her gown, twisting the cloth into a tortured knot before letting go. "I didn't fight this hard to get us home to watch someone so important to me be hollowed out by grief and guilt. It's a knife in my chest, and I'm bleeding inside. I can't make you do anything, and I promise you I won't try, even though we both know that I'm right. I'm not asking you to forget, only to get well...

"Please, Chakotay," she entreated, tightly, unable to stem the tide of flowing words, "Please. Don't make me beg you anymore, because I will." Kathryn shut her eyes before he could respond, scrunching the lids together, determined not to break down. Surely, she had lost her mind. She was behaving like an idiot. _This isn't working. I will regain control._

She heard him, afoot, traveling from the door to the bed, his bare feet thudding heavily across the polished tiles of the bedroom floor. The mattress shifted as he sat down beside her. The addition of his greater weight causing her to roll against him. She froze in place.

"I expected you sooner, you know." He sounded precariously weary, but calmer, if not resigned.

It was music to her ears. She linked her arm with his, relaxing, purposively, against him; offering him her strength, comfort in the form of physical contact. Something they both needed. "You live in out in the Boonies. Even I have to abide by Warp Speed Restrictions." She felt him decompress: a muffled, fragmentary half- chuckle in reaction to her comment. Her spirits literally soared. "Besides, I had that other stop to make."

In a split-second, he went rigid. Her eyes flew open. She cursed herself, her stupidity, as he scooted from her.

Chakotay thrust his right hand through his wet hair, studying the drops of water left deposited between his fingers as he pulled it away. Remorse etched into his nearly perfect features like markings on a stone relief. Compressing his lips into bloodless, wrinkled bow, he turned toward her, his eyes, deep-seated, liquid wells of pain. "Seven needed someone with her," he wrangled out. "I'm grateful, Kathryn. It was only right that it was you."

His naked acquiescence of the truth made the statement much more painful. She wanted to console him, but couldn't think of what to do or say. He acted first, haltingly, placing his dampened hand on her left shoulder. The gesture, awkward in its execution, was very sweet and meant to reassure.

She slid in, close beside him, and put her arm around his waist. His hand automatically shifted from her one shoulder past the next, his arm cradling her neck, as it had nowhere else to go.

Petered out, she let her head loll against him. They had gone through so much, together. It felt right to hold him; the rightness of it integrating them, legitimizing that thing that had always lived between them. That inherent thing-that-never-was and yet-somehow-still-existed, ratified, in a way it never had before. Kathryn relished in the feel of him, the concentrated human warmth, his quiet strength, the smooth, satiny texture of his skin. The precious, arrant familiarity of someone she held so dear.

She pressed her face into his neck, her dabbled, bantam nose taking in his scent, her lips puckering daintily into the uncompromising line of his jaw.

Chakotay jerked up, his body colonnade-ing, involuntarily. He shuddered, his grasp on her suddenly much tighter; then he fell torpid, his breathing shallow to her ear.

"Chakotay," she said, seriously.

"Kathryn.” He elongated her name, prolonging each syllable. It came out warily. As if he might not like what he was about to hear.

"How is it you can love me after all this time?"

The answer came succinctly, without hesitation. "Ten cin yacunticech tumen tech ca yacunticen."

It was evasive, so quintessentially Chakotay, it caught her unaware. She broke out in a grin. "I don't know what that means."

His heart accelerated, beating erratically under his arm, within his chest, into her side. "I love you because you love me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (11). "The wound must be honored." — The Fight


	8. The Brilliant Blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tonight's episode is brought to you by: Bird (Dead Can Dance).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A word of thanks to MrNiceGuy, who sat up, and knocked some sense into me the other night, so I might write a little more...

Disclaimer: _Star Trek_ and all of its subsequent incarnations, (including _Voyager_ ) are property of CBS Corporation and/or Paramount Pictures. No profit made. No harm intended.

Title: Parallel Lines

Author: kneipho  
Beta: MrNiceGuy and My Man, Godfrey  
Rating: MA  
Fandom: VOY, AU (Non-Canonical)  
Character/Pairing Codes: J/C/7, J/m, f/m/m/f with sporadic appearances by/ and with references to most of the usual (supporting) _Voyager_ Suspects.  
Spoiler Alert: Misc. episodes throughout both _Voyager_ and _Enterprise's_ runs, also _TNG's Violations_ and _Star Trek: Nemesis_.

Synopsis for Part 7: The obligatory romantic interlude, "Cue music..."

\------------------------------------

Part 8: The Brilliant Blues

Stardate: 56487.58539446999 (June 27, 2379, Time: 23:14:53)

Raioth Residental Estate, City of Laikan, Andor(ia)

Iligran lounged indolently, across the pliant, alneesh leather casing the divan. (12) The hind parts of his gangling, sea-green legs sticking to the backless piece of furniture as he looked out through an enormous, frame-less window into the park. Liruu lay, beneath it on her back, straggled out across the bed, covers cast aside. Her snow-white limbs spread athlirith-eagle wide.

"This is how I remember you both," Ambassador ch'Raioth adduced, descending into the room, "always naked." He set a rectangular serving tray on top of the low glass table in front of the divan.

Iligran practically tootled in gratitude but clamped down on his tongue. _*She sleeps,*_ he imparted, telepathically, antenna curving toward the bed. He snatched up a tankard of chilled srjula. _*And there is no shame in being naked.*_

The ambassador eased into a kaleidoscopic sling-chair the end of the table while the cheeky interbred finished the tea in several, loud thirsty gulps. Taking the empty mug while other man sat up, he set it back down on the tray, then handed over a full one. He helped himself to a piece of flatbread. "Did we tire her out, do you suppose?" he pondered, in a lower tone, and bit into the bread.

Bemused, Iligran took another long swig of cold tea. *More likely, it is the change in climate.* He scanned the park, a second time, through the Spartan sheet of glass; the subterranean landscape as beautiful as on the day he and Liruu had left, in-varied by the passing of time. Thermal-heated waterfalls surrounded by fulgid blossoms —and tall shoots, suffrutescent and gummy with nectar; the cities of the Blue were so different from the icy austere caves of the Aenar Northern Waste. _*The capital city is kept too warm.*_ he complained, flipping a cinereal plait of hair from in front of his shoulder to his back. * _You keep your house too warm.*_

Iligran's host tightened his belt, securing his robe. "Perhaps." His companion pop-eyed him in disbelief, eliciting a casual shrug.

_*Your pores have grown over-large, Blue-skin. You spend too much time on Earth.*_

"Is well below freezing, here."

_*On the surface!*_

Ek'Norval ch'Raioth began to laugh, startling his naked paramour. "I cannot help if I am cold."

Tawny eyes rounded, this time —in wonder. _*You laugh, these days, Norval?*_

"I do." Leaving his chair, Ek'Norval reseated himself on the divan, settling his forehead on the other man's temple, their aerials touching, delicately. "I have missed you."

_*And I you.*_

"I am glad the two of you have come."

_*As are We. There is such pleasure for Us in being with you, such pride in the watching of your Installation. You have traveled light-years, from the broken boy that We once knew.*_

Ek'Norval sharply righted himself, remaining seated. Azure features obscured beneath the chalky bangs of his fleecy coiffure. "I should like you and Liruu to stay on with me, for a while." He suspended the subject, seeming to lose himself, in reticent cerebration. Iligran was overwhelmed, rendered mentally mute, in the moment, and filled to bursting with a scudding joy. The unexpected dictation to remain on the Estate after so many seasons "in exile" was more that he dared hope for since the day the invitation to the Instillation had arrived at the Caves. "There are... whisperings," the ambassador disclosed gravely, after a while. "Rumors over last the few days, within the Federation's Telepathic Coalition, which concern the Double Planet." (13)

Iligran recovered his mind, elation fleeing his rawboned form with the same rapid fluidity in which it had come. He twitched nervously. _*The Dominion is at peace. Noval, tell me, these rumors are not true.*_

"I do not—"

_*Are the Romulans are plotting?*_

"I cann— "

_*Will the Remuns spearhead attacks against the Federation—?*_

Ek'Norval threw up his arms, imperiously, to ward off further questions. Ascending to his feet, he filed vigorously to the foot of the bed to stare down briefly on Liruu. Iligran waited: mouth waterless; mind wisely closed; blood drying up and powdering in his veins. The Aenar lived by a pacifistic code within, Andor(ia)'s more aggressive populations. The possibility of another large-scale conflict was terrifying, and he was very nervous of what the ambassador might relay.

Turning on his heels, Ek'Norval re-trooped to the divan. Placing a mollifying hand to the side of his lover's neck, he spoke gently, "Th'se, my beloved, I beg your pardon. Paranoid talk and unsubstantiated theories are very common in political circles, post-war. I am foolish. I know better than to listen. I did not mean to cause you panic, only to keep you near. Will you consult Liruu?"

Blood deliquesced as joy rebounded; relief and pleasure coercing thoughts to flutter away in an anticipatory jumble. _*Of course, Noval, of course. Does this mean, cht'e, that you are finally willing to renew Our Bond?*_

The tender hand cosseting the side of his neck fell cumbrously away. "No beloved, it does not."

Iligran's lower lip extended as his ardor rebelled, the frank avowal tearing into his heart and spilling his hopes out at the plenipotentiary's feet. He puffed out his chest. _*One alone cannot be Whole—_ *

"Th'se—"

_*Nor two, nor three.*_

“Illie.”

_*What one chooses, is chosen for all.*_

"Cease, now."

_*What befalls one—*_

_*Iligran—*_

_*Befalls all—*_

_*E-N-O-U-G-H!!!*_ The undiluted force of the ambassador's mental presence detonated within the ambit of the amalgam's skull; the sheer intractable power of it, propelling him to his knees. Liruu cried out but did not wake as Ek'Norval pounded, once again, toward the bed; seeming to grow physically larger with each step, fully boosted by an old rage. He whirled around, checkmating his progress; his inflexible form back-dropped by the cyclopean lens of the border-less window. He finished the proverb in a telepathic hiss, _*'Their lives are yours, my life is theirs.'... Do not presume to quote me, 'The First Truth', Green One, for I know it well. This argument is too old, too worn and lugubrious to have out, yet again.... How many seasons must pass Us by until you embrace the real truth?! Our marriage is dead, the Quad is broken, never to be resurrected —for three is all We will ever be!*_

Iligran struggled for breath, blue-spleen trampling over them, both; the brutal dispatch of emotion aggrandizing his physical affliction. _*So, a part of you hates me, even now? You blame me still?*_ He gripped the sides of his head, trying and alleviate the malleating pain.

_*We should have died when the Guardians tore her from this plane!*_

_*But We did not.*_

_*No, We did not!*_ Ek'Norval visibly deflated. _*Because of you...*_

The seasoned weights of guilt and ignominy, added to the crossbreed's misery, virtually chaining him to the floor. _*Our Bond was weak, Norval —the only reason Liruu and I survived the neural shock brought on by her death.*_

The ambassador confronted the window. _*Thelees was mine,*_ he confessed. _*I could not bring myself to share her.*_

_*And I could not bring myself to let go of you.*_ The pain weakened and abated. Iligran dropped his hands, corporeal hammerings buckling way to sensations infinitely lonelier and sharper as the ambassador consciously pulled his mind away. Illigran wanted to cry out in loss. _*I regret many things in my lifetime, ch'te. Reaching for you on that night and re-grounding you into continuation will never be one of them.*_ He struggled to his feet. The dainty protrusions sprouting from his boney rind lashed about, catching in a tangle of coarse braids _*Our Quad's deficiency was... shameful, yet, it allowed me to save you.*_

"A coward's words. Were you so afraid to die?"

Iligran answered without blinking. _*For a girl I hardly knew but for your attachment her? Yes. Thelees by rights belonged to all of Us. Liruu and I knew her only through what you would allow.*_ * He was suddenly very angry. _*You could not bring yourself 'to share her'?*_ he mocked. _*The poor child was not gifted, but her lack of psychic ability should not have been what led her to die. If Liruu and I had been allowed —if Our Quad had bonded properly... If the three of Us had guided her, she would have easily survived her gestation, Our sons and daughters standing, here, today and at Our sides. Your greediness robbed Us all, SorjeibnEk'Norval 'Endilev ch'Raioth. This rue is of your own design. I did only what I ought to save to Our keth, by saving you.*_ The thoughts leaving him were bitter, _*You did naught but waste Us all!*_

Ek'Norval was acutely faulted; a man who would master the Four Quadrants yet lived a life of mental isolation. Even so, Iligran held him close to his heart, closer than anyone, closer than he held Liruu. Looking, blurrily, at the fearsome, melancholy figure staring out at the orchestrated splendor just beyond reach, he took pity on him. Irascibility died in the face of such a pulchritudinous, wounded entity; acerbity melting like broken pieces of ice on boots set to dry before the fire.

Crossing the chamber, he folded his arms around the ambassador's neck, pinioning him elegantly in place —back to breast, from behind. _*You are the most skilled telepath Andor(ia) has ever seen. Admired and respected by everyone, revered in the Wastes. You have done more these last years than most Aenar deemed possible. Your presence within Parliament has given Our people a true voice in the Empire.*_

"It is wrong for you to mantle me representative for all Aenar." The assertion felt distant as if it came from far way.

_*Your white-skinned mothers would disagree.*_

A cottony head fell back, weightily, cushioned by the hybrid's shoulder. "I was born of the Blue, as you well know. Raised away from the Wastes."

Lowering his arms and gliding back, Iligran reversed position, until the two men stood, together, nose to nose. _*My fathers were also of the Blue, like yours. My skin is green. I could not hide my mix of lineage, even if I wanted. Nonetheless, it is the trait of aggression, the natural violence of my thoughts that I strive daily to keep buried deep inside —coded into my DNA by my progenitors, which sets me apart from other Aenar. And yet, Aenar is what I will always be. You are and will always be like me in this, Norval. Thallassan, yes, but Aenar as well. Your extraordinary gifts, are of the White, and the very things that make you so invaluable to Parliament and the Federation. Andorian always, born of many keths, many houses —representing all. You cannot set yourself away from the totality of that fact, any more than you can set yourself apart from Liruu or Me and what We are. What We will always be to you no matter how many more seasons pass Us by. You are not built to live alone.*_

"I am not alone." Ek'Norval shrugged, antenna wobbling briefly and arcing in. "The two of you are with me, for now," he annotated, almost blithely. "And, there is Kathy when she returns." _*If she returns.*_

_If she returns?_

The errant transmission of shifting thought lit up white nerve impulses, sending a breaker of inquietude dashing through the conglomeration's brain. Something was away from right, something, that in the jealous haze of disappointment, he unconsciously ignored. _*Ah, yes, your Terran admiral.*_

"Her given name is Kathryn. Kathryn Janeway."

Gray eyebrow's rose in repudiation, cambering above glazing eyes. _*Of course, I quite forgot. 'Kathryn Janeway of Voyager,' in point of fact. Your off-worlder...*_ Iligran trailed off, suckling, momentarily, on an escaping lip. _*I would you grant me access to the full workings of your mind. You choose the bumpiest road, ignoring the ones before you laid smooth... *._ Ek'Norval's face fell into his hands. _*You intend to bring her to live on the Estate, once she returns.*_ The mental statement that was in a reality a question went unanswered. Iligran bowed his head, casting off the growing urge to wail. Weighed down by a brand new pain, he re-summoned his carved-up pride and, instead, let loose a sneer. _*The notoriety resulting from her trip to the Delta Quadrant is the sole reason your tezha relationship remains uncontested by the Andorian Council. You must be aware... Andor(ia) will tire of her, Ek'Norval. It is only a matter of time before Parliament intervenes.*_ (12) Iligran braced himself for the retort that would lead them to another inevitable enfilading row.

It never came. The ambassador merely mumbled something under-breath and stalked the room. He staggered, awkwardly, as he approached the divan, and fell into his seat.

Loud, hitching, intakes of air wrought Iligran's attention to the bed. Liruu, poised on its end, was wide-awake, hands gripping the edge of the mattress; feet pressed flat onto the floor. _*Ch'te!,*_ she mind-cried, her bleach-blind eyes thrumming lash to lash, involuntarily in disbelief. _*Oh, Ilie, what has he done?*_

Iligran flew to the divan, mouth widening in shock. He goggled at the slumping dignitary, who sat focused in-the-moment, laser-pointing, on absolutely nothing, and at the same time was also clearly, incontestably focused on a very specific, imperceptible event. He was muttering to himself, again... and again —and continued: the same clipped, breathy dictations; the same foreign sounding jibberings; the same exact nonsensical grouping of words, over and over.

Liruu released a silent, vibrating shriek as Ek'Norval capered, headlong, off the couch. He grabbed Iligran by the braids and tossed him to the floor. Howling spasmodically, he reached down, snatching up another handful of hair, and dragooned the green man back up —onto his knees. He dove in, sealing his stunned lover's gaping mouth closed with his own. Tongue shoved inside; he probed violently; his mind, repeatedly pumping in the same aberrant, alien turn of phrase.

Disorientation brought on by the speed and the savagery of the assault fleetly waned. Iligran activized, punching unrestrainedly at Ek'Norval, pummeling him in the ribs half a dozen times with closed fists on either side. He fought, wildly: scratching and grasping, pushing and hitting the man who owned his rending soul until he managed to wrest free. Scrambling away on all fours, Iligran translated the strange, frightening, transferred adage in a panic-stricken voice, creaking with the lack of use, "I love you, because you love me!"

\------------------------------------

Chapter End Notes:  
12\. Andorii Terms

analneesh - marsh bison

athlirith – (an andorian) eagle

srjula: a tea.

(tacitly implied) Therin Park: A Water Guardian sanctuary in the Andorian capital.

Beloved (bondmate): zh'yi, sh'za, ch'te, th'se

tezha: (thezha) - non-marital sex, sexual union outside the shelthreth (marriage)

13\. The Double Planet: Romulus and Remus


	9. Anchor Bend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Janeway sends a message to the Doc.

Disclaimer: _Star Trek_ and all of its subsequent incarnations, (including _Voyager_ ) are property of CBS Corporation and/or Paramount Pictures. No profit made. No harm intended.

Title: Parallel Lines

Author: kneipho  
Beta: My Man, Godfrey  
Rating: MA  
Fandom: VOY, AU (Non-Canonical)  
Character/Pairing Codes: J/C/7, J/m, f/m/m/f with sporadic appearances by/ and with references to most of the usual (supporting) _Voyager_ Suspects.  
Spoiler Alert: Misc. episodes throughout both _Voyager_ and _Enterprise's_ runs, also _TNG's Violations_ and _Star Trek: Nemesis_.

Synopsis for Part 8: Ek'Norval ch'Raioth sails "Around the Bend."  
Tonight's episode (re-write) brought to you by: "The Kill" (The Dresden Dolls).

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Part 9: Anchor Bend

Startdate: 56624.28040969053 (August 16, 2379, Time: 20:41:46)

Vice-Admiral Kathryn E. Janeway's Personal Apartment, Presidio Residential District

San Francisco, Earth

The door hissed closed, locking in place with a solid "click," as he exited the apartment. Kathryn stifled a croupy groan from her temporary crash pad behind the davenport. Curling her legs into her stomach, she rolled onto her side. Everything hurt. _Everything._ Her entire body was raw and sore. _Legs. Hips. Breasts. Cheekbones._ The inside of her head thumped excruciatingly. Even her teeth and hair felt bruised. She reproached her lack of common sense for what seemed like the millionth time that evening. Her brain had been too full, preoccupied with more pressing concerns. Or maybe, the habitual, rotating traumas of the Delta Quadrant had left her unable recognize this kind of danger at close range. She didn't know. It was too late to do anything about it all, now.

_If only..._

If only she had thought to alter the access code to her apartment... If only she had reported the initial violation... If only she had considered just how far Ek'Norval might actually go... _If only..._ Reginald Barkley was dead. That made four people.

"Four people, dead." The ambassador had told her.

Four people dead, because of her.

\------------------------------------

Mark Johnson had collapsed in the early afternoon, on the day, she, Tom, and Chakotay left the Dorvan System for Betazed. The news, and the fact that Mark died later, that same evening, broken to her by her mother the next morning, in a communication patched through to the runabout via her office secretary at Starfleet Command. Kathryn didn't crumble when transmitting condolences to the Widow Johnson, reaching for Chakotay's hand as he stood stoically beside her.

The deaths of a pair of _Voyager's_ own, _Equinoxer's_ Marla Gilmore, and Noah Lessing, in New Zealand, reached them two weeks later. The hows and whys, as of, yet, to be determined. Tom set the craft's controls to auto-pilot, and she had replicated drinks; Chakotay leading the toast, a raised glass to "absent friends."

Travailing upright, Kathryn scaled the side of the embonpoint sofa, pulling herself up onto her feet. Ek'Norval had been very clear. He would forgive her this one time, this once, for this single indiscretion, but he was done waiting. They would marry quietly, and as soon as possible. He desired children, which, despite genetic incompatibles between their species, he expected her to bear. In addition, she was not to travel anymore, anywhere, outside of work, without his express permission. Social interactions, with members not of the Raioth Household, were, from now on, forbidden unless pre-approved by him. Lastly, she was never, under any circumstances whatsoever, to have any type contact with that "Maquis Klahz," again.(14)

If she refused to acquiesce, attempted to go up privately against His Ambassadorship or publicly seek out the authorities without proof (of which, he stated emphatically, she would find none),he would crush her professionally. "A simple task," he guaranteed, "With your current reputation, within the 'Fleet, still in recovery.

"Most importantly," he then asserted, backhanding her neatly across the face, right before he lay siege on her in earnest. "I will ensure, without question, without mercy, that others will die."

Icheb, first, then Owen Paris, his son and family, followed by Harold Kim, Tuvok, her mother and sister, Seven of Nine, and last of all, Chakotay. 

The first four murders were merely "warning shots across the bow." Ek'Norval would follow through, of this she had no doubt.

\------------------------------------

During the ordeal, after a while, at some point, she stopped fighting. Overcome by a superior strength, by his psychic force of will, she embraced inertia, closed her eyes, and waited. Waited for the episode to be over, waited for him tire and finish what he had barbarously begun. She set her mind adrift —away from thoughts of Mark and his widow, of poor, poor, dead Barkley, away from Gilmore and Lessing, of mental anguish, near-hysteria, anger, helplessness, of regret, and physical pain. She unanchored her ambitions, unmooring past and future promises, cast off love, her family, and friends.

Consciously, she continued until she had all but emptied the vessel, utilizing meditations Tuvok taught her during an acquaintanceship that had spanned over twenty years. "A cluttered mind, the indubitable weapon of self-defeat," the Vulcan had once said, "is what leads a man to subjugation." _A cluttered mind. An empty mind. Empty the mind._ She continued to let go, abnegating the weapon of her defeat. A natural fighter, personal fixity, was a trait ingrained into her very core.

But, there were some things she would never yield to that blue bastard, ever. Some secrets she would keep, no matter what.

\------------------------------------

Kathryn limped away from the davenport to the escritoire, wrapping one arm around her midsection as she leaned, heavily, onto the back of the desk chair with the other. What she needed was time... She needed to find a way to buy enough time. Time to gather proof. _Formulate a plan, group together allies._ Time to pull herself together. _Time to fix this Godforsaken muck-up and make things right._

"Computer," she directed, activating the Comm. "Record the following message for, and send to,'The Emergency Medical Hologram, _Voyager_ Mark One.' Current location, Whispering Man Mental Health Facility, Betazed. Encrypt the channel, audio only: SSC 31, Janeway, Bravo, Five, Two, Zero, Three." She dragged strength into lungs and gave power to her voice, "Doctor, this is Admiral Janeway, I need your help." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 14\. Andorii Terms:
> 
> Klahz: an animal known for its careless way of moving


	10. Chac Pol Chum (Red-Headed Vulture)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chakotay rushes to keep an appointment.

Disclaimer: _Star Trek_ and all of its subsequent incarnations, (including _Voyager_ ) are property of CBS Corporation and/or Paramount Pictures. No profit made. No harm intended.

Title: Parallel Lines

Author: kneipho  
Beta: My Man, Godfrey  
Rating: MA  
Fandom: VOY, AU (Non-Canonical)  
Character/Pairing Codes: J/C/7, J/m, f/m/m/f with sporadic appearances by/ and with references to most of the usual (supporting) _Voyager_ Suspects.  
Spoiler Alert: Misc. episodes throughout both _Voyager_ and _Enterprise's_ runs, also _TNG's Violations_ and _Star Trek: Nemesis_.

Synopsis for Part 9: Janeway sends a message to the Doc.  
Tonight's episode brought to you by, "Whistle" (Flo Rida).

\------------------------------------

Part 10: Chac Pol Cħom (Red-headed Vulture)

Stardate: 56870.10296169456 (November 14, 2379, Time: 14:06:06)

Starfleet Command, (adjacent to) San Francisco, Earth

Stuffing the last of the fried lokar beans into his mouth, Chakotay mounted the exit staircase of underground transport, taking the steps two at a time. (15) He swallowed the greasy mouthful, discarding the wrapper, up top, into a nearby porto-recycler. The cheap vendored comestibles were over-seasoned, but he had no time to stop and slake his thirst. The EMH expected to see him at the Medical Complex in fifteen minutes —on the opposite end of the Compound. If he hustled, he just might make it. Chakotay ambulated up, out onto the surface, and into the grounds. 

Four months ago, if anyone had proposed he willing set foot back on Starfleet premises, he would have not only scoffed the suggestion, but openly questioned that being's intelligence. But, circumstances change. As do people. Rather easily, it turns out, when aided by a radical surgery, followed up by an intense course of psychological therapy. Visits to the SMC, starting today, were a condition of an early release from the Facility on Betazed, five months, cut back to three. Negotiated by the Doctor, not long after "a supremely successful neurological procedure," Chakotay had readily agreed to the terms. He wasn't crazy. At least, he didn't think so. Not anymore.

For a man raised up on a desert planet, the Northern California Coast in November was fairly nippy but quite scenic. Starfleet Command's acreage was appropriately panoramic, a lumpy blanket of well-kept perennials of every shade of green, accented with mini-ponds, and sleekly designed buildings. He missed the flourishing color of Boothby's roses though, the diligent groundskeeper's flowers, bloomless and dormant until the spring. Kathryn once mentioned, the old man would sometimes give her fresh cuttings when she was a cadet.

Chakotay put his head down, tensing up, traveling faster with the memory. She had gone home by now; he was certain, office hours having ended —to her ambassador husband if one believed the gutter media reports. Chakotay did. It all made perfect sense. The hot celebrity couple of the moment, she and the Andorian seemed plastered everywhere. Every media pad, every gossip outlet had the duo on their radar. Chakotay couldn't escape images of the two of them, together, to save his life, which, of course, she had. The ineludible fact that she preferred the dignitary, he had learned to live with; he respected her choice. 

\------------------------------------

Approximately, two weeks into his stay on Betazed, she broke off contact. He messaged her every few days, from then on, for almost a fortnight. She blocked his communiqués. Worried, he continued trying to reach her but finally stopped when the Press rumored a secret wedding. The absence of comment from Andorian outlets, more telling than all the other unchecked speculation, convinced him that the rumor might have real credence. That and a short communication issued from her, for him, through her secretary. Sent to a bewildered, uncomfortable Tom Paris (who re-delivered it over the Comm), apprising the former commander that his missives were no longer considered appropriate. He was not to try to contact the admiral, again. Ever.

The humiliating broadcast drilled a chasmal hole in Chakotay, all the way down, deep inside.

_Numtetah u kexac hokol helele._ Misery of the change comes forth today.

He then, churlishly, determined, he'd based whatever recent expectations (he might have developed for Kathryn and himself) on little more than what amounted to a few mind-blowing hours of pity-fucking on his home planet. On a night when they were, both, emotionally compromised.

It wasn't the entire truth. Both of them had made mistakes. His misdeeds far worse than hers, to be sure. A violent ex-convict, a wacky _tuucha'_ —a monkey with no prospects, he had nothing of value to offer someone of her stature. Why should she turn her head his way? She had never said, she loved him, not romantically, not one time. Never said, she'd leave her partner, not for him. Desperate to help a fallen ally, she had done what she thought had to, in order to give him back his life. The method stunk to the high heavens, the price for it, their friendship, but Chakotay couldn't argue the results.

What stung the most, what made him feel the most woefully pathetic, the sickest part of it all, was, the whole damn situation had made him admit that he still loved her. Loved her, if it were at all possible, even more, now, precisely because of what she had done. Back on Earth for well over a year, and she still retained the same confounding, nonsensical, corkscrewingly destructive, self-sacrificing aspect of her nature: always putting others, her _Voyager_ family, including him, above herself; until their collective lives moved in the forward direction she thought they should.

\------------------------------------

Chakotay jogged through the Complex's automatic doors, flashing his ID and his cheesiest smile at the receptionist, who waved him on through for a standard, hairy-eyeballed pat-down. He tucked his feelings into an internal box and locked the lid. If Kathryn had married, it meant she loved her husband, and she'd done right by everyone in casting Chakotay, so determinately aside. Dorvan had altered their relationship irrevocably. He wouldn't pretend it hadn't happened, couldn't pretend, and go back to how things had been before. He knew she understood that. Kathryn understood him very well.

The sharp break, as painful as it was, happened the way it had, he surmised, because, she cared profoundly for him. Just not in the way he wanted.

She had a real life these days, filled with accolades and adoration. She had developed and was sustaining an intimate affinity with a coequal, a true compeer. She was the best person Chakotay had ever known, entitled to that kind of happiness. Something captaining _Voyager_ had deprived her of, for much too long. Entitled to the best, she now, could live the best —the fullest, happiest life from today on and forever. He would not be one who stood in her way. 

\------------------------------------

"Chakotay?! What are you doing here?" B'Elanna Torres took off, down the wood-and-concrete corridor, launching herself into his arms. He chuckled heartily, bear-hugging the energetic bundle of muscle, much to the annoyance of the yellow-shirt trying to clear him. The lieutenant-engineer nodded over her friend's shoulder at the guard —who then, pissily waved them out of the line.

Chakotay swung B'Elanna in a lopsided circle, before depositing her on the floor. He headed for the turbo-lift.

"I heard you were out," she said, keeping pace with him. "But I thought you planned to stay on Betazed. Why didn't you comm me —at least, leave a message? How long have you been on Earth?" He ushered her forward, politely, as they reached the lift. "Why haven't you come by the house?" she questioned, somewhat imputing, darting in.

He tailgated inside. "Sorry. I've only been on-planet, a couple of days. Just trying to find my feet. I planned to stop by. I've got presents for Miral."

"Somebody little is going to love you." 

"That's the whole idea." He voiced his command, "Tenth Floor, Medical Suite Three."

She hesitated. "You're going to see the EMH.”

Chakotay side-eyed her. "Starfleet won't approve use of the mobile emitter for my check-ups. I'm lucky they're allowing the Doctor to treat me at SMC."

"Oh, right. That makes sense.” she said, vacantly. “Why else would you visit HQ?"

She seemed flustered by the feedback, which concerned him. And, antsy. Which made him, antsy. "Where are you headed?" he asked, innocently.

"Up to see him, too." She paused a second time, flicking an invisible piece of lint off her arm. "Did the Doctor mention to you that other _Voyagers_ might be here?"

_Fuck._ "Who else is here, B'Elanna?" 

"Um, most of the old senior staff."

Chakotay crossed his arms over his chest. He asked his next question slowly, "Do you know why?"

"No." She answered, quickly, firmly. She wasn't lying to him, but she was hiding something. The lift opened. "Wait—" she burst out, too late to hinder the surprise.

Tom and Harry stood huddled together, in the Doctor's Waiting Area, chatting animatedly. Beside them, stood Tuvok, also engaged in conversation. His companion, however, was a woman. She deferred further discourse and turned her head.

"Commander."

Chakotay confronted the face of his ex-wife, Seven-of-Nine. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 15\. Lokar Beans: A Ferengi vegetable
> 
> 16."Numtetah u kexac hokol helele." (Taken from, The Prophecy of the Priest Chilam Balam, translation, David Bolles.)


	11. Kissing the Gunner's Daughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tonight's episode is brought to you by: "When They Come for Me" (Linkin Park).

Disclaimer: _Star Trek_ and all of its subsequent incarnations, (including _Voyager_ ) are property of CBS Corporation and/or Paramount Pictures. No profit made. No harm intended.

Title: Parallel Lines

Author: kneipho  
Beta: My Man, Godfrey  
Rating: MA  
Fandom: VOY, AU (Non-Canonical)  
Character/Pairing Codes: J/C/7, J/m, f/m/m/f with sporadic appearances by/ and with references to most of the usual (supporting) _Voyager_ Suspects.  
Spoiler Alert: Misc. episodes throughout both _Voyager_ and _Enterprise's_ runs, also _TNG's Violations_ and _Star Trek: Nemesis_.

Synopsis for Part 10: Chakotay rushes to keep an appointment  
Tonight's episode brought to you by, "Whistle" (Flo Rida).

\------------------------------------

Part 11: Kissing the Gunner's Daughter

Stardate: 56870.14107686446 (November 14, 2379, Time: 14:26:08)

Starfleet Command Medical Complex (Tenth Floor), Earth

"Good. You're all here." The EMH affirmed, sweeping through the Examination Room doors and into the Waiting Area. He skimmed over the group with an active scrutiny that ended in a dour smile. "And relatively on time," he needled the occupants of the turbo-lift.

"Nice to see you, too, Doc." Tom interposed, drolly. "What's it been, five, six whole days since you and I saw each other last?”

Not needing a defender, B'Elanna was more direct. "What's this about?"

The Doctor's mood fully disintegrated. "Let's adjourn into to the Conference Room, shall we?" He glimpsed indecipherably at Chakotay and eased to Seven's side. "It will be more comfortable in there and we can have the privacy needed to speak freely." He propelled the drone ahead, a ductile hand at her back, the dark Vulcan trailing the footpath of his heels.

Chakotay juddered involuntarily. _Nin caah in ziztal in uol. I have to go and calm down._ He knew full well he couldn't leave, but wasn't ready to deal with the fallout from the events that led up to the extermination of his marriage in front of his comrades. Nevermind, the ominous dynamics of an ambush mystery meeting. He could only pray things wouldn't get any worse. Still, if the sudden intense countenance of the EMH was any indicator, it probably meant some-kind-of Holy Hell was about to break loose. He shook his head. These kinds of meetings never ended well. B'Elanna pinched his elbow. He gave her what he hoped came across as a look of reassurance, and they exited the lift. A sober Tom and austere Harry nodding simultaneous greetings; caboose-ing the entire band, as they filed the out of the room.

\------------------------------------

A lank sea-green individual, garbed in a flimsy white robe, reclined at the head of the conference table, a multitudinous shock of natty gray braids surrounding a stalky pair of antenna, curtaining an amber gaze. Both the EMH and Tuvok silently acknowledged the entity, though neither moved to make introductions. The stranger's eyes latched onto Chakotay as he entered the room and lingered. The intimacy of the behavior, enough to make Dorvan dweller wonder if, when and/ or where, they had met previously.

Tuvok entered a code into the control panel on the wall, disabling the room's Automatic Recording Program. "Doctor, if you are prepared to begin?"

"Of course." The physician indicated for everyone to take seats. The systematic ceiling lights, shone over-brightly, glinting off his bald head as he addressed his former shipmates. "Four days ago, shortly after Chakotay left Betazed, Icheb collapsed in his Academy dorm room."

"My God." B'Elanna turned toward her husband.

"Is he all right?" the pilot asked.

Seven answered, "He is currently unconscious in a semi-comatose state though his condition, at this time, is stable."

Chakotay looked at Seven, really looked at her for the first time since he walked into the Doctor's medical suite. Though physically recovered from their shared misadventure, her skin was exceptionally pale, even for her, and had acquired a sallow tinge. Lavender shadows cleaved to her lower lashes and skirted her comely eyes, making them appear non-conformably huge. It was obvious she hadn't regenerated recently. He disrupted her view and frangibly held it. She thrust the moment aside. "Is it the same thing that killed Reg Barkley?" he ventured.

The Doctor's vocal processors temporarily failed him, and the Vulcan took charge, "Affirmative, along with taking the lives of both, Crewmen Lessing, and Gilmore."

"And Mark Johnson," Chakotay concluded, softly.

"That is correct."

Harry brushed a glossy lock of black hair away from his cherubic face. "So all four of the deceased are either former members _Voyager_ or people who have come in contact the crew?"

Tuvok nodded. "Starfleet believes that _Voyager_ may have brought an unknown pathogen through the Borg Conduit upon our return from the Delta Quadrant."

"Is it true?" B'Elanna wanted to know.

"It is not." Seven responded, evenly. "Icheb's symptoms and those of the other victims all display earmarks of a particularly virulent, lethal form of Iresine Syndrome."

Harry looked confused. "Iresine what?

"A rare neurological disorder, native to the Alpha, Beta, and Gamma Quadrants," Seven clarified. "Characterized by electropathic residue, a decreased histamine count, and coma. Death is not a common side-effect but has been known, in some cases, to occur." 

"So, is that what this is?" B'Elanna queried, pensively.

The Doctor recovered his voice, regarding Seven in openly apologetic manner, and said, "No." He readdressed the group, "In 2368, an unusually high number of what, were thought at the time, to be cases of Iresine Syndrome, were reported across several planets. The misdiagnoses were discovered by Dr. Beverly Crusher when several more cases were thought to have broken out on the Starship, _Enterprise-D_. None of the victims, however, presented decreased histamine counts, and all of them presented traces of having had recent telepathic contact."

Seven accessed her Borg memory, leveling a scowl at the Doctor as she made the identification. "Telepathic Memory Invasion."

The EMH was grim. "Yes."

"That's a form of mind-rape." Tom interjected, stunned. "I remember reading the case study. The perpetrator was Ullian, and no deaths were reported. TMI attacks are characteristically brutal, but Ullian telepathic contact —even a forced memory retrieval, isn't lethal. So, how could, and why would an Ullian, none of us have ever met, transmute a psychic violation into the ability to kill?"

The colorful squatter, merely an observer up until this point, pushed away from the conference table and rose up, regally. "He could not." The man's voice was queerly desiccated, crackly as if he hadn't spoken in eons, but solidly timbered. "Nor could or would any other self-respecting member of his race. Telepathic Memory Invasion has been outlawed as a practice on the Homeworld for many years."

B'Elanna reached her limit. "Who is this guy?"

"State your designation." Apparently, Seven had, too.

"AkeenIligranP'Trell th'G'Phov." The outlander articulated, crispily, and went on, "The perpetrator of those crimes has long since been dealt with, and is safely locked away. I am acquainted with Jev. (17) He spent several seasons in adolescence, with his progenitor on Andor(ia)." th'G'Phov's speech lulled, dramatically, his august expression turning severe. "He was fast-friends with my former bondmate, your Admiral Janeway's current spouse."

Chakotay's hands curled into fists in his lap, the space separating his ears beginning to roar. "Ek'Norval ch'Raioth."

Harry struggled to follow. "The Admiral's married? When did that happen?"

"Wait." B'Elanna put up a hand in disbelief, "I may be way off base, here, but are you trying to tell us the Andorian ambassador is killing _Voyagers_ using an adapted telepathic technique he picked up from some alien nutter, as a teenager? Is that even possible?"

"His Ambassadorship is abnormally gifted." th'G'Phov asseverated, by way of explanation. He appeared to be entirely serious.

Chakotay directed the next question at both Commander Tuvok and the Doctor, his mannerisms deceptively mild. "How long have the two of you known?"

Non-reactive as always, the Vulcan deferred to his photonic confederate —who, at least had the programmed ability to look guilty.

"The admiral first contacted me almost three months ago." The EMH admitted, glumly.

"While you were still on Betazed." Chakotay quietly stated. "With Me."

"Yes. I informed Commander Tuvok, on Admiral Janeway's instruction, shortly, thereafter."

"No one else?"

"Admiral Owen Paris."

Chakotay's vision clouded red. "And Starfleet's take on all of this?"

"Up until this juncture, we have not been able to collect adequate proof of the ambassador's activities." Tuvok supplied, re-entering the discussion. "Both, Admirals Paris and Janeway agree it will be impossible to successfully confront ch'Raioth without it."

"So Janeway just married and has been living with a murdering psychopath as part of a deep-cover operation, and my father approves." Tom submitted, cantankerously, bushwhacked by the news.

Chakotay rubbed the back of his neck. The roaring was much, much louder now, his rancor growing, exponentially. He needed to refocus or he was going to hit something, someone: Vulcan, Photonic, Crossbreed. _Whatever_. He didn't particularly care. "Doctor, do we have enough proof, to get to ch'Raioth, now?"

"We do." The EMH confirmed, gesticulating vigorously. "Icheb's nanoprobes, have not only managed to keep him alive by blocking the most damaging effects of the ambassador's implantation of TMI, but they have also dissembled the masking of his telepathic signature. Unfettered, ch'Raioth's blended genetics leave quite a distinct trail. We have him dead to rights."

"Unfortunately, there are complications," Tuvok revealed, dispassionately, dropping a virtual shoe.

Seven's eyebrow lifted, quizzically. "Complications?"

The Vulcan explained, "As you are all, most unquestionably aware, on the approximate Stardate: 56814.9, Shinzon of Remus staged a successful military coup of the Double Planet's Remun slave caste against Romulan Empire, and was installed as Praetor of the Romulan Senate. The situation has the potential to become extremely volatile. _The Enterprise-E_ has been dispatched with Captain Jean-Luc Picard conducting the initial diplomacies. Because the Remuns are recently known to have strong telepathic abilities, Ambassador ch'Raioth has been tapped by Starfleet and will also shortly be dispatched to advise on the situation —and to possibly engage in talks on a near and future date."

"You think Starfleet won't be moved to intervene until after the situation has stabilized." Chakotay did not need affirmation. "How much danger is our admiral in?"

"A great deal." th'G'Phov said, earnestly. "As are you all. We are running out of time."

"Why is he doing this to us? And what does he want from Janeway?"

"Grant me access to you mind, Mister Chakotay," the green man requested, solemnly. Urgently. "I would share with you, my thoughts."

Chakotay clobbered the flat, freshly-waxed top of the conference table with a clenched paw. "Negatory!" he barked. "We're not doing that." He'd had his fill of other people's voices in his head.

th'G'Phov plopped sullenly, back into his chair, regarding Chakotay with an oddly disappointed, dead-duck expression. "The ambassador desires offspring," he disclosed, perturbingly.

"What?" Harry looked absolutely blutterbunged, like he'd been surprise-launched from his chair directly into deep space.

"She is already gestating."

The roaring exploded.

B'Elanna practically shot across the table, pissed-off, ready to call out what she obviously saw as bullishit. "I spent a lot of time in Quarantine watching old media casts, catching up on what we'd missed while in the Delta. I found the stories on the resolution of Andorian Genetic Crisis particularly interesting.18) Andorians require multiple sets of gametes to procreate. What you're saying is genetically impossible."

"We watched those media casts together, B'Elanna." Tom leaped to his feet. "And, no, no it is not. Not if you clone one parent and grafts bits and pieces of a second onto the fetus." He stared at the Doctor in outright tergiversation. "You son of a bitch. You could be de-complied for this!" He pointed an accusatory finger at the EMH while addressing the cluster-at-large."He's been meeting with ch'Raioth and Admiral Janeway. I don't know how regularly or for how long, but I saw them leaving Examination One, last week when I was here." Tom not only sounded angry, but looked betrayed. "Please tell me, someone, somehow, altered the Doctor's program."

_*Grant me access to your mind.*_

The tacit phrase burrowed, terrifyingly inside Chakotay's brain.

Bulldozed, he jockeyed erect, his chair see-sawing noisily across the floor as he kicked at it inadvertently. Time stopped: the remaining occupants of the room instantaneously silent, petrifying into place. He opened his mouth but issued no sound. Incapable of willing his muscles into action, helpless, as th'G'Phov, swooped from the table, and fully delved into his mind. Chakotay's consciousness forcibly ballooned, his thoughts popping off to nothing, like water bubbles breaking on the surface of a pond. He plummeted headlong into delirium: the walls of the Conference Room collapsing; wood-and-concrete crumbling into dust —only to rebuild and re-surround him as familiar red-brown borders comprised of bricks baked of the earth...

Chakotay was home. He was home, safely relocated to own his room. On Dorvan V... 

The subdued heat of deep night, always-welcome, floated in through the open window. The breeze, milden and fresh-smelling as it slowly blended black ink into the early morning hours, oh, so, pleasant on his totally exposed, inexplicably over-warmed skin.

His body animated, erupted toes to scalp, every nerve ending instantly singing; bursting uncontrollably into flames.

 _Kathryn_.

She sighed, dewily, opulently, voluptuously, into his scorching, greedy, open mouth; her slight, sweat-slick body, denude; supple and quivering, in his arms. Chakotay pressed forward: fire leaping off his tongue, in past her lips, onto her shoulder; her fingers clutching spasmodically at his deltoids while she undulated beneath him. He spread a blaze back up along her neck, her breasts pushing up into his chest, her nipples grazing, wreaking havoc on his skin. He pressed in further, pushed her further, more deeply into mattress; gripping her buttocks with both hands, anchored in.

Lost to his emotions, he reveled utterly, in pleasure, unwilling to keep himself from binding to her. The depth of his commitment chanted to her in mother-words as she shattered; whelming, stuttering his name—

And wrung out all he held within...

_Ten cin yacunticech tumen tech ca yacunticen..._

The room, once again, shifted, creating change. The air cooling more and more as the walls fell a second time: earth-brick and dying heat replaced by something sleek, cold and exotic. Still naked, and suddenly alone, he now stood staring out, agog; at an unbelievably vivid landscape though a colossal plate of foreign glass.

A soundless, disembodied voice screamed out to him in warning as th'G'Phov appeared menacingly out of nowhere. He nabbed Chakotay by the hair and forced on him, a savage, bruising kiss.

_*The woman's perfidy has driven Ek'Norval far from his senses.*_

\------------------------------------

Chakotay slammed warp-speed back to Earth: to Starfleet; the Doctor's Suite; back into the meeting. He felt wretched, his clothing soaked in fright and perspiration, but he was now, somehow, uniquely focused; his mind open and receiving:

 _*The ambassador's power to inflict harm can be limited by distance.*_ th'G'Phov broadcast. _*You will take the woman once the Diplomatic Envoy has left Federation Space. My mate and I will continue to help shield her from him as We have these last months until the Envoy has traveled far enough away. The woman must then, renounce him, publicly, in favor of you. Parliament will gladly support her choice... Do not misconstrue my intentions, Mister Chakotay.*_ th'G'Phov's irises scintillated, dangerously. _*If you deviate from these instructions, try to harm the ambassador, or go up against him in any other way, I will expose your secret to the Whole of the Federation, prematurely, and he will be well within his protected rights to challenge you to Combat. Make no mistake. He will end your life. I guarantee it.*_

"Do not deviate," the outcross warned, again, aloud, his golden glare bleak with foreboding. He released Chakotay into a crippled heap upon the floor. "He will obliterate you all."

Illigran th'G'Phov stepped around the crumpled form, and quit the room.

\------------------------------------

Chakotay could no longer feel his fingers: his teeth rattled, lips purpling as his body glacial-ed over. Tom and the Doctor raced to roll him on his side. His stomach bubbled, wrenched and helix-ed, fried beans and acid expelling from him in vomitous contractions. His belly finally emptied, and the cramping came to a stop. Tom helped him to sit up. Chakotay gripped the pilot's shoulder, grappling to formulate spoken words. "Don't b-blame the EMH," he sibilated. "He only did what he h-had to, in order to protect her."

Badly needed warmth, in the form of Harry's jacket, approached —offered to him by Seven, her natural compassion overriding recent detestation. Chakotay struggled when he saw her: sliding back, slapping the hands trying to aide him. He broke down in wrecked, humiliated sobs. He wished with all his heart he could beam her away, away to somewhere —anywhere but here, at this moment, right now, with him.

She didn't deserve this. Didn't deserve any of what had happened. She had always deserved better than she received.

"I am being eaten!" he cried out, staring at her, a good woman who had loved him. A woman who had suffered too much, already, at his hands. "I'm so sorry, Seven, Kathryn's baby is mine."

\------------------------------------

Chapter End Notes:  


17\. Jev, an Ulillan (Telepathic) historian, who committed a number of telepathic assaults on ST: TNG'S episode, "Violations"

Ref. (DS9 - "Worlds of Deep Space Nine, Andor: Paradigm")


	12. Pressure Drop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seven finally speaks her mind. Paris also has a say.

Disclaimer: _Star Trek_ and all of its subsequent incarnations, (including _Voyager_ ) are property of CBS Corporation and/or Paramount Pictures. No profit made. No harm intended.

Title: Parallel Lines

Author: kneipho  
Beta: My Man, Godfrey  
Rating: MA  
Fandom: VOY, AU (Non-Canonical)  
Character/Pairing Codes: J/C/7, J/m, f/m/m/f with sporadic appearances by/ and with references to most of the usual (supporting) _Voyager_ Suspects.  
Spoiler Alert: Misc. episodes throughout both _Voyager_ and _Enterprise's_ runs, also _TNG's Violations_ and _Star Trek: Nemesis_.

Synopsis for Part 11: Chakotay learns surprising news.  
Tonight's episode brought to you by; No Ordinary Love, Sade Cover (The Civil Wars) and Despacito (Luis Fonsi ft. Daddy Yankee) for the update. 

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Part 12: Pressure Drop  
Stardate: 56893.56452942684 (November 23, 2379, Time: 03:37:31)

_USS Petit Morin_ , Federation Space, Twelve hours outside of Andor(ia)

"You keep hurting me."

Chakotay looked up across the cramped sleeping quarters of the runabout to find Seven percolating on him, just inside the open door. "I would not retake you as my husband," she modulated, resolutely. "We no longer function as a unit. We are separate, but I find am hurt by your actions past and present." Her gemstone glare refused to waver. He grabbed his shirt from the edge of the bunk and put it on. "Tell me, Commander, did you ever care for me at all?"

Chakotay's fingers latched on to his earlobe. He didn't know if he could have this conversation with her yet, without breaking, but it was her right, and so, this, would be the time. "I cared for you," he told her, thickly. "You know I did. I still do, more than I think you will allow yourself to believe."

She wasn't moved. "And the admiral?"

"She has nothing to do with what I did to us. Don't ascribe it to her, Seven. None of it is Kathryn's fault."

"I do not ascribe any of what has happened between us to the admiral," she contested, outraged by the assumption. "I have and will always place responsibility for the entirety of what has occurred specifically on you."

His eyelids fluttered a few times at her riposte. It was righteous and Seven-blunt, which was healthy, but it still stung to hear her say it. A dry lump formed at the bottom of his throat. She'd come for an answer, an honest explanation. He would man up and provide it. He'd finished with lying, either directly or through avoidance, and he had lied to her so often —everyday they were together, after his release from New Zealand. He had lied by omission, in not telling her about his condition. Lied every time he didn't take his medications. Lied by pretending that he was capable being a proper husband to her, or anyone, at that point. Lied by pretending everything was fine.

It was her right to hear the truth spoken from his lips for a change, no matter how witless or deficient it might sound. He would not degrade her further and make her ask him "why."

Kicking the covers off his lap, he climbed out of the lower berth, only to stand and turn to size up the top bunk, unable to look her in the eye. "I didn't expect you to wait for me," he said. "Sixteen months were what we planned; sixteen months were all we needed. Sixteen months of living with my sister, until your aunt's sponsorship re-legalized your Federation status, independent of our marriage, then you would be free. You could start a real life as an official citizen. You could do anything, be anything —as a true individual, autonomously, unencumbered, without fear. Free to make all your own choices without strings or enforced obligations. But that's not what happened. I was let out ahead of schedule. You set your whole future aside and chose to be with me... Seven, it was such an extravagant and an unexpected gift." He steadied himself against the bunk, against the eddy of emotion swelling up inside. "I was such a mess after New Zealand. The meds the doctors put me on were effective, but the side effects were...difficult to endure. They weren't necessary continuous, but some days —most days, it felt like I was living underwater. I could see, touch, taste and hear. At the same time, everything was different. Everything around me got so garbled, moved so fast. Me? My mind would move so slow." He smiled dolefully into the mattress-rail, heartsick, still incapable of looking at her. "And you were there. This unexpected light, this ray of clarity, above the water, out of my reach. Still wanting me, but the old me —the man from _Voyager,_ the one you fell in love with. The man before the noise, and before the medications... I hadn't had an episode in over six months. I convinced myself I was fine, and I stopped taking them."

She was crying. He could hear it, in the subtle alteration of the way she absorbed breath. She never cried, and he felt lousy: cruelly thoughtless. Gutless and stupid. His inane confession, insufficient, made no sense, but it was the only explanation that he had. "I wanted to give you back that man so badly, Seven," he opined, lamely. "That man you gave up so much for, the man you deserved," He finally looked at her.

She was a perfect study in incredulity and anguish. "You dismantled our collective because you believed I would not love you had I known that you were damaged? The human race is a flawed design, riddled with imperfections, yet I adapted to accept those inefficiencies, permitting us to be as one." She marched in, close. Her hand poised, hovering in place above his shoulder for mere seconds before she dropped it to her side. "I am not a child. I am a matured sentient being, a fully ripened individual. I make my own decisions, my own errors, otherwise, the growth of my humanity will cease." She tossed her head, anger visibly beginning to seep through with her tears, "Who were you to decide for me, what kind of man I should have been allowed to love? Your inability to trust in me is what destroyed our marriage, not your mental inefficiencies. A malfunction of the mind would not have been enough to make me run away."

She started to cry harder, and it was pure torture. Her immaculate features marred with reproach; her nose, red; her skin, blotchy. He didn't think, just sought to moderate the latest injury he's caused her, his arms reaching out to pull her in.

Chakotay literally "saw stars" for the first time in his life as his head collided with the mattress rail of the bunk, a cracking agony exploding behind his right eye with a horrendous potency. Seven twisted his arm behind his back, jerked it up, mightily, with one hand; mashing his face further into the unforgiving rail.

"It will be a long, long time before you and I negotiate an armistice." Briery tubules scraped precariously, along the side of his neck beneath the jugular." The admiral's safety is all that matters, now."

\------------------------------------

"Quit squirming and look at me." Tom grabbed his patient firmly by the chin and ran the dermal regenerator across the entire right side of Chakotay's face. "You want to tell me what happened?"

"I tripped getting out of bed. Broke the fall with my face."

"Oh yeah, that explains scratches on your neck." Tom didn't bother hiding his disconcertment. "Hold still. You're worse than Miral." He tilted his head in the direction of the cockpit. "The two of you are going to have to learn to play nice if you're going to do this together."

"We'll be fine."

"Seven's more than capable of piloting our orbit, if you want my boots on the ground."

"Negative." Chakotay knocked the hand waving the regenerator over his cheek aside. "I don't know exactly what we're beaming into. If we get into trouble, her presence might come in handy." He touched his swollen eye and winced. "Some of the guards might think twice before charging a Borg. Besides, the transporter is designed to take only two at a time. B'Elanna may have to work a little hasty magic if things get sticky on the surface, and I want you the ready to make the jump to Warp right away. Did Tuvok and Harry get the Doc to the Jupiter Station?"

"They're setting up the makeshift O.R. there right now."

"I don't like that the ambassador had her moved to the Estate."

Tom put the regenerator back in the Med Kit and placed the case on the Multipurpose Lounge table. "Don't worry, Big Man, we'll get the admiral back. It's going to be okay."

"I'd feel a whole lot better if we could wait until we have word from th'G'Phov. He was adamant as to how this all should go down. ch'Raioth managed to get to Johnson on Earth all the way from Andor(ia). I don't want to take any unnecessary risks."

"The Envoy lifted off over a week ago. A Federation vessel sanctioned to travel at high warp. We're not taking a huge gamble."

Chakotay wasn't convinced.

"Look, if our positions reversed, if this were B'Elanna and Miral, I might second guess moving this soon, too, but it's our best chance. We don't know how long the ambassador's mission will last, a few more weeks, and he is bound to send for her." Tom settled himself at the table, italicizing the reason they were there. "She's entered her second trimester, Chakotay. The EMH has to remove those fetal graftings before the baby develops in the third, or ch'Raioth's DNA will take root and alter your kid's genetic structure permanently. The sooner the Doc performs the surgery, the better."

Chakotay reiterated the Doctor's warning, "The longer we wait, the more difficult the reversal becomes." If the baby developed a telepathic connection to ch'Raioth in-utero, there would be no way to separate them until after the birth. Mother and child would require the ambassador's complete psychic support to survive. Chakotay threw back his head and grimaced at the ceiling. He was going to throttle Kathryn, once he had her back, erase the EMH's program and make her watch him do it, for good measure.

Tom accurately read his expression, "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Muddle things up in your head. You said it, yourself, in the Doctor's office. This isn't about assigning blame."

"That's enough, Lieutenant." The older man's salty mien portended ruination.

The pilot softened his approach. More or less. "With all due respect, _Sir_ , you'd already done the job when he started this. What was she supposed to do? He threatened her using all of us. He's backed up those threats by killing people. He'll kill her, too, and the baby, when he discovers, she isn't carrying an accelerated clone."

"Stop telling me things I already know, Paris. It isn't helping."

It was a lie, of course. It was helping. Tom was only talking sense, but Chakotay's nerves were still a-jangle –had been so, an ankle-strap of dance bells shaking off-beat and out of tune, ever since the meeting at SMC. He couldn't seem move away from feeling bubble-headed: bouncing between an unnatural impotency and an ever-growing anxiety. ch'Raioth was incredibly connected. Much more, than anyone in their group had realized. Admiral Paris recently expressed new concerns. Stating that, even if tensions within the Double Planet were to disappear tomorrow, and even with the new evidence they had which proved the ambassador's ghoulish activities, a Federation trial, was... _"Going to be a hard sell and a long way off at best."_

Removing Kathryn from Andor(ia) as soon as possible and establishing paternity was the most efficient way to protect everyone from harm. As long as they observed the formalities to the letter (i.e. meeting off-world in private with select members of the Andorian Council), before going public, ch'Raioth could be not only forced legally —but pressed politically into leaving Kathryn immediately alone. The rest would eventually follow in time. At least that's what they all hoped.

Tom continued with the pep talk, "Get her off the planet and you've got this in the bag." He tapped the tabletop determinately for emphasis. "The conception date is prior to the marriage. That's your weapon, Chief. You get your woman legally when she renounces her relationship with Snail-head, and you stake a prior claim. Chakotay's eyes met with the back o f his head. Tom made a face. "What? Don't you like my terminology? Undoubtedly, my wife has told you; I'm little more than swine."

"I don't take issue with your chauvinistic tendencies, Paris. You just don't get to call me that."

"Huh? Call you what? Oh. Chief?" The pilot smirked, beatifically, and set up for the zinger. "Why the hell not?"

The tabletop sputtered impertinently, chirping discourteously as Chakotay deadpanned, "You're not Indian." He whapped communications with the Cockpit open with a planate palm.” Go ahead.”

B'Elanna's voice catapulted up, out of an invisible speaker, into the air, “Aft-to bow, gentleman. On the double. We've got a problem.”


	13. Protège(z)-Moi (Me protéger de ce que je veux .)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kathryn lives a life in Hell.

Disclaimer: _Star Trek_ and all of its subsequent incarnations, (including _Voyager_ ) are property of CBS Corporation and/or Paramount Pictures. No profit made. No harm intended.

Title: Parallel Lines

Author: kneipho  
Beta: My Man, Godfrey  
Rating: MA  
Fandom: VOY, AU (Non-Canonical)  
Character/Pairing Codes: J/C/7, J/m, f/m/m/f with sporadic appearances by/ and with references to most of the usual (supporting) _Voyager_ Suspects.  
Spoiler Alert: Misc. episodes throughout both _Voyager_ and _Enterprise's_ runs, also _TNG's Violations_ and _Star Trek: Nemesis_.

Synopsis for Part 12: Seven finally speaks her mind, Paris also has a say.  
Tonight's Episode brought to you by: "Countdown" (Beyonce), "Protege-Moi" (Placebo), "Carolyn's Fingers" (The Cocatau Twins).

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Part 13: Protège(z)-Moi (Protégez-moi contre ce que je veux.)

_She rolled onto her side, reaching over to trace the scalloped miracle on the man laying beside her, commonly referred to as an ear —with her thumb. He swatted at the offending digit, making her laugh and mumbled something she couldn't decipher. Eyes still shut, he flopped on his back, taking her with him._

_"I need more time to charge up," he murmured, in a twilled and drowsy voice. "I'm old. My machete is rusty."_

_She nestled in, close, her cheek soaking in the heat and the damp wafting from his chest. She smiled languidly. He smelled wonderful: spicy, and of the desert. And of her. She kissed the nearest patch of sun-gilt skin. "We have to get up," she reminded him, not moving. "Second Dawn is almost here. Tom will want to know where we are."_

_Suddenly, she was on her back, gazing up into a gorgeous face._

_"It's going to be a long journey, Kathryn. I'll think of a convincing lie."_

\------------------------------------

Raioth Residential Estate, City of Laikan, Andor(ia)

Stardate:56894.890886605935 (November 23, 2379, Time: 15:14:39)

Her eyes popped open, ousting her from a dangerous slumber, away from the forbidden. Kathryn trembled against the cold, blowing on gloved fingers to ease the stinging tingle in the tips. She struggled, awkwardly, but managed to sit up on the divan. Wrapping Liruu's quilt more tightly about her shoulders, she listened —tensely, for the sound of footsteps in the Corridor. Ek'Norval would be angry if he caught her mind dream-wandering into memory, and a game of punishment would soon follow.

The Envoy had returned late-morning, in secret, without explanation. The reason, why, a mystery in addition to being unpredicted. The diplomatic party retired immediately to the Great Hall, upon arrival, sans greetings and reunions, for what she guessed were debriefings.

It was dis-equilibrating, to say the least, being "off the list" for information. Governmental shake-ups were notoriously murky waters in which to maneuver. Nothing after a military coup, including, basic introductions, were exactly what they seemed. Best case scenario, the _Enterprise-E_ had everything in hand and the ambassador's services considered extraneous. If she played her cards right (and if Ek'Norval was the mood when she eventually saw him —to share), she might learn a little something. It would be more than she knew at the moment. Despite having monitored the Double Planet for Starfleet herself, in the months leading up to the formation of the Envoy, her knowledge of the current situation within Romulan Empire was lamentably outdated. Kathryn assigned Picard the task of engaging Praetor Shinzon, personally.

But that was before.

Once Ek'Norval's name attached to the mission, she immediately went on leave from work. Officially moving, shortly thereafter and at his insistence, to his estate. He cited her current state of health. Her condition wasn't blatantly obvious, not yet. "But, you cannot conceal your gestation, forever. A Terran-Andorian hybrid is well-nigh unheard of and I will not permit my offspring to be openly speculated upon. I want you far from public eyes." Under private guard, naturally, cloistered from the Media. And Starfleet. The Andorian Council. Her own mother. Her sister, Phoebe. The Universe-at-Large. It was the perfect recipe for insecurity for someone like Kathryn; isolation creating a kind of emotional astasia within her, magnified by all the things she didn't know. 

It was scary as Hell.

Freedom had been close, a week away at most. _So very close._ She had almost reached out and grabbed it with two hands.

Bundling further into the quilt, she reassured, herself, too quickly, with what precious knowledge she possessed. Icheb was alive. They had the proof they needed. Owen had only to present it to the right people. It was probable, he had already. Ek'Norval's return meant, her immediate retrieval would be delayed, not obviated. Emancipation was inevitable. Her only job was to hang on a little longer, and she could do that. _Easily_. She could do it. She would do it. _Owen will come through, Tuvok will think of something, Then, Chakotay—_

Kathryn's hands flew up, covering her mouth, suffocating a mewl of misery.

_A cluttered mind. An empty mind. Empty the mind..._

\------------------------------------

It had become increasingly difficult to control her thoughts, keeping her mind clear through what felt like endless meditation (the Aenarians' help notwithstanding). The couple alternated spending nights awake, to continuously shield Kathryn from the ambassador's mental invasions —even at a distance. It was always more dangerous when Kathryn slept. Which frankly, was all she wanted to do these days. The rigors of stress made unheralded demands on her spirit and evolving body, which continually zapped away her at reserves.Her reliance on the various stimulants given to her by the EMH to resolve the problem combated with the inhibitors she also needed to take to suppress her dreams. Already having upped daily dosages to the maximum, she would risk birth defects, were she to try to take more.

\------------------------------------

An injudicious choice, it had been on her part, not to terminate the pregnancy. A complicated issue before the ambassador's choke-hold, the indecision over to whether to abort, wrestled between her hormones and head for nearly ten days upon discovery. There were an untold number of reasons, not to bring this particular child into the Universe, ranging from the father's fragile state of mental health —to the hurt it would inflict on an already emotionally lacerated Seven —to what they all would have to endure when the truth eventually came out into the open, into the unforgiving light of day. The Media would be merciless. Starfleet wouldn't put up with another scandal.

Yet, on that horrific night in her apartment, none those reasons seemed to matter. The decision wasn't logical. Still, Kathryn had been so unmitigatedly frightened by what could happen, that even as the analytical part of her brain put together a plan to deal with the crisis, and even before it became clear that the embryo she carried remained miraculously unharmed —she cognized that she was, forthwith, willing to go to any and all lengths to keep her baby safe.

The child's making, for her, an incontrovertible event. A rock-solid exchange of the undeniable between two people had somehow circumvented modern contraceptives and resulted in something, she thought, in her recent lifetime, would be denied to her. The baby was real, sheltered within her body and developing steadily, each day beneath her heart. Living proof that what she shared with the true father was perdurable.

Not that it mattered.

Kathryn held no illusions about a lasting future with Chakotay. Her actions, in all this, since Dorvan —though unavoidable, had undoubtedly wounded him. Quite possibly beyond repair. Love was the foodstuff of poets and romantics, in any case. And, life had taught her that happy endings were only the wool-gatherings of callow fools.

Fearsomely resplendent in dreams.

\------------------------------------

The sonance of footfalls, galloping headlong down the passageway, ended tout de suite with the crash of the double-doors breaking open and banging against the bedroom walls. Liruu barnstormed inside: braided, albescent ropes of hair swinging into the weighted folds of her skirt and winding about her thighs as she reined in, to a stop. "The ambassador is on his way to see you," she heaved —and pitched, arms outspread, to the floor before a massive floor-to-ceiling highboy beside the window.

"What?! Do you mean now?!"

Liruu lugged open the bottom drawer and began feeling around inside. She yanked out fresh togs. "You must dress." she dictated, holding the items up for a sighted approval. She shook them impatiently. "Make haste." she said, surceasing communication long enough to take a gulp-y breath. "He is moving us to the Wastes."

Kathryn dropped the quilt, bisecting the Chamber in restive steps; shivering as she pulled off her old gown."Are you s-sure?"

"He bade me, to inform you myself," she affirmed. "Directly." She pushed new material over Kathryn's head; tugged Terran arms though tapered sleeves. 

Kathryn pulled down the dress and put on a cloak, concerned by what their movement could mean. _The Wastes? Are we evacuating?_ She immediately shut down that line of thinking. She needed facts, not drawn conclusions. Conjecture was the enemy in War. _War? God, no. Stop it, Katie._ She slipped into her shoes."When do we leave?"

"Almost at this moment. I am to order the packing of our belongings and close of the Manor as soon you and I have finished."

"Iligran?"

"Sequestered in the Great Hall since the Envoy's return. Communication between Us is forbidden until after the meetings have ended."

Kathryn's stomach lurched, and the baby objected. A dozen butterflies waked at once; tiny wings beating together, furiously, within her womb.

The Aenar's lily-painted hand splayed out, cupping Kathryn's belly gently. The baby calmed. "Remain surefooted and not fear." The white hand fell away. Liruu cantered back, abruptly, antennae stiffening sharply. She spoke again, this time in a hushed and sudden whisper, "Norval feeds on it."

Kathryn's heart leapfrogged her throat into her mouth, her eyes darting to the open doors. Her feet turned stone as she waited, rooted firmly in place, too distracted to breath. Staring into the empty space, the muffled sounds of voices in the distance becoming steadily louder; clearer —the strident footfalls progressing with indisputable purpose; closer and closer; echoing and growing stronger, out in the Corridor.

Liruu's face commutted to an instant blank, her bearing, regal and serene. She tapped her forehead felicitiously, with a sylphlike finger. _*Remember, Kathryn. You are here. We are with you. Together, We are strong...*_


	14. Shax

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illigran devines the workings of his heart.

Disclaimer: _Star Trek_ and all of its subsequent incarnations, (including _Voyager_ ) are property of CBS Corporation and/or Paramount Pictures. No profit made. No harm intended.

Title: Parallel Lines

Author: kneipho  
Beta: Not right now (This section pissed Godfrey off, so he's officially taking a break).  
Rating: MA  
Fandom: VOY, AU (Non-Canonical)  
Character/Pairing Codes: J/C/7, J/m, f/m/m/f with sporadic appearances by/ and with references to most of the usual (supporting) _Voyager_ Suspects.  
Spoiler Alert: Misc. episodes throughout both _Voyager_ and _Enterprise's_ runs, also _TNG's Violations_ and _Star Trek: Nemesis_.

Synopsis for Part 13: Kathryn lives a life in Hell.  
Tonight's episode brought to you by, "All of Me" (John Legend), and quantumsilver.

\------------------------------------

Shax: A poisonous parasitic insect that nests under the skin of its host.

-v-v-v-v-

Part 14: Shax

Stardate: 56894.92468924391 (November 23, 2379, Time: 15:32:24)

Raioth Residential Estate, City of Laikan, Andor(ia)

He broke his nose in the fall.

Powerless to free his hands, bound by the wrists behind his back, he could only brace for impact when the guard callously strong-armed him into the Chamber and flung him headlong onto the floor. The sound of his exo-skeletal nasal plates collapsing against the polished surface when he landed, sickeningly audible in his ears, was short-lived; superseded by a rabid, sight-robbing, seethe of light.

His face erupted in pain.

Illigran forced his head to one side, blood streaming from his nostrils. His eyes, amaurotic, wide and wild with dread, searched uselessly for the exit. A galvanic instinct to take flight mounted within, the unbearable mutating. His torment revamped to numb-like surdity. The impulse robbed him of reason, compelling his trussed-up body into a crouch. He darted for escape but was shoved immediately back down; the guard's colossal foot boring down into his back, securing a prisoner's position.

It lifted magnanimously, only when the amalgam began to pule in defeat.

"Illigran!" The voice somehow hurdled in, it's urgent, pattered tone rupturing through the shock clouding up his brain like lightning kindling the night sky. It hovered there, wavering; crackling amid the analgesia and the panic. _Waiting._

 _*Liruu.*_ His mind launched for hers in desperation, and she caught it. Clamping down onto his thoughts with breakneck speed, she anchored them to her own, securing a connection. Aphonic exclamations of sorrow, motley images of succor fluxed over him in a bolstering torrent. He could feel her beside him then, physically easing his enfeebled figure onto her lap. Her psychic essence laved to-and-fro within his mind. A balmy consolation that quelled his terror, as she reached beneath him and worked to free his hands.

His sight returned. He saw her wondrously achromatic, tear-streaked face. His own face throbbed anew.

And, he could hear Janeway screaming.

The binding on his wrists snapped, and he threw his arms about his concomitant's waist, subjoining to her stately form. The Terran's ragged harrowed soundtrack played on and on, beside them, seemingly without end. Illigran clung fiercely to his mate, with all his strength, and, somehow, more tightly still. He buried his injured face into her stomach, felt her gasp, his eyes momentarily re-blinding in a painful phosphorescent seethe. 

Vociferation subsequently ebbed, wearing down, as Janeway's mind broke open. Her mental frenzy tided. Jellyfish waves of incoherence bloated, upsurged, exploding against the rampart of the ambassador's flaming gall –breaching the amalgam's skull; jolting him. He quavered piteously.

 _*I am here, beloved.*_  Liruu crooned mutely to him; soothing, her tremulous fingers cresting his scalp.

Illigran could not subdue his grief, was sobbing hysterically, now, openly. Audibly. _*He is gone. Liruu, our boy, is gone, lost to Us. Replaced forever, by a warped and vicious stranger, I wish Us not to know. *_

_*Th'se–*_

_*We do not belong here. We no longer belong here. Sh'za, I wish to leave this place.*_

_*And so We shall.*_

_*No. No, not with them. Away from him. Let it be two of Us. We shall return, back to the Wastes, back to way that things once were.*_

Liruu disengaged from her spouse, transmitting, steadily, communication resonating a persistent strength, _*You must cease now, my beloved. He will detect you.*_ She propped him up until he sat. _*For the safety of Us-All. You must contain your thoughts.*_

Janeway mewled. The amalgam moaned at her distress. The Aenar convulsed, then suddenly upsprang: surfeited; her entire being buzzing with tenuously bridled power.

lligran's overtaxed brain vibrated, enlivening in disbelief, with apprehension. With a panoptic, spectacular, fresh cut of fear. He clambered on his knees, grappling his wife, once more, about the waist. _*No, sh'za, you must not act. White Law forbids a show of force.*_

She shook him off, easily, in his weakened state, her thoughts emotionalizing into multifarious bits: indignance, sorrow, and concern. (17) Concern for Janeway, and for the babe, herself, Norval, and for him –as always. Concern for him, always for him. _His body. His mind. His frazzled state._ Illigran slumped back, rump flattening his calves, green arms noodling; Liruu's heart hoof-beating inside his head.

 _For him._ She was doing this for him.

This forbearing child of the Aenar, a child of peace; this noble purebred daughter, who had inexplicably remained, willingly, by the side of a self-absorbed half-caste for a nigh-score of years, was being driven to act in a way aberrant to her gracious self. _For him._

Just has she had, on that disconsolate night when Thelees had died, so long ago.

IIlligran rose up, making a frenzied. panicked grab for her skirts in an attempt to pull her back –and missed as she stepped forward. He puckered with an agonized "whop," in a lump at her heels. _*Please, beloved,*_ he implored, frantically, still reaching for what moved away. _*I will not endure, if you are hurt.*_

 _*I am not afraid.*_ "SorjeibnEk'Norval'Endilev ch'Raioth," she called out, softly. "That is enough. It is time for this to end."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 17\. indignance: Yes Virginia, it is a word, not one of those that I made up ;-) (merriam-webster).


	15. Shapla

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shapla: A betrothal symbol; woven locks of hair from bondmates. 
> 
> _E sim, eu estou acenando para você, Doc Yewell_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I'm late, Folks. I got sick and then distracted. My apologies.  
> Thanks again, to quantumsilver, who played soundboard and helped place me "back on track."

Disclaimer: _Star Trek_ and all of its subsequent incarnations, (including _Voyager_ ) are property of CBS Corporation and/or Paramount Pictures. No profit made. No harm intended.

Title: Parallel Lines

Author: kneipho  
Beta: Godfrey's still irritated with me, so not right, now.  
Rating: MA  
Fandom: VOY, AU (Non-Canonical)  
Character/Pairing Codes: J/C/7, J/m, f/m/m/f with sporadic appearances by/ and with references to most of the usual (supporting) _Voyager_ Suspects.  
Spoiler Alert: Misc. episodes throughout both _Voyager_ and _Enterprise's_ runs, also _TNG's Violations_ and _Star Trek: Nemesis_.

Synopsis for Part 14: Illigran divines the workings of his heart.  
Tonight's episode brought to you, by, "Boa Noite, JSTJR Remix" (Tropkillaz)

\------------------------------------ 

Part 15: Shapla

-v-v-v-v-

Stardate: 56893.58044774235 (November 23, 2379, Time: 15:45:53)

Ch'Raioth Residential Estate, City of Laikan, Andor(ia)

Unlatching the start gate of her mind, Liruu channeled her psychic force. Her energy funneled straight ahead, emphatically racing toward its goal. Her clear intent: to devastate a cherished chan, with whom she had once shared a life.

The ambassador turned at the call of his name, shoulders yo-yoing rhythmically, up and down with accelerated respiration. His face shaded indigo in its ferocity. He snarled, expelled in chattering whir and disconnected from Janeway. Tossing her enervated form onto the bed; his ink-eyes shimmed as he prepared to defend. Saliva dripping down the sides of his mouth in spindly threads as surprise interwove psychosis with voiceless charges of betrayal into an indomitable, parapsychological net.

Startled, Liruu recoiled. Realizing, too late, she was overwhelmed. Her mind shied and balked –bridling all out, but still skidded toward the discarnate web, beyond. Her last thought before ensnarement, a mental snort of fear, so pure, in essence, so elemental, Iligran forgot to breathe.

Then she was burning.

It came upon her in stinging convolutions, each brain cell swirling, rippling thick to brim and border with hot needles of sensation. It surged, peppering through her skull, and pushed outward –rupturing into whetted, searing, full-body blows of pain. Her torso bowed. Limbs stretched, extending out as they went rigid: stiff and prolonged; arteries pumping magma straight to her speeding heart. She screamed out, nerves on fire, and screamed again. The black rushed in to greet her. Her mind gone, her body starched, static and enflamed.

Illigran's head snapped up, at the moment that she left him. Their connection, broken —his interned self, ascended. His pain decamped and, uncharnelled, his animosity unfurled. Eyes aglow, he stormed the guard, his mind zooming, striking his custodian flat-out, without temperance. The giantess flew backward: untouched, airborne, across the Chamber. She crashed into the table.

Glass shattered. Shards scattered, taking flight.

Ek'Norval stood, entrenched; staring; fists down, clenched and shaking, at his sides. His nostrils flared. Pupils expanded. His facial cast —a testimonial of wonderment and trepidation.

The guard gurgled, twitched, jerked, and was no more.

Tugging his mate down by using her wrist, the outcross pulled until Liruu lay on her back beside him; chin pointed at the ceiling. He rolled onto her, blanketing her body, tucking her beneath him –the ambassador never exiting his sight. Her breath lightly fledged his sea-foam cheek. Her lungs emptied and re-filled below his breast. Her heartbeat slowed to unison, with his. _*Sleep, sh'za,*_ he imparted, stroking a limp, colorless antenna with his own. _*All will be placed back to right, in time for you to wake.*_

Raising his form from hers on flattened hands, he placed his toes on their mark. His mind launched, jetting at a furious pace, dive-bombing his prey. His body followed. Cutting the Chamber, Illigran drop-kicked his quarry within mere seconds. He settled down, sitting on his victim's belly –pinioning the prone man by the shoulders to the ground, under green feet.

Ek'Norval struggled: snapping; biting; spitting venom; arms and legs flailing, all to no avail. Already caught, he looked up at Illigran in awe and loathing, wincing –as the one being he once trusted, ripped apart his mental barriers and forced a pathway, merging their minds. _*You betrayed me!*_ he accused, rattled, mind roaring in friendless fury.

_*Yes.*_

_*You pit your mind against my will!*_

Illigran's head infused with spite. _*Yes!*_ he admitted, shoring up against the foreign sluicing of ill will. His own thoughts transfused true revulsion, _*What you do is unnatural. It goes against what our people deem holy. You fly in the face our Sacred Laws!*_

_*Whose laws? The Blue... or White? Kathy is my proper mate, bound to me though legal custom! She would disavow our union for a life with that criminal Klahz?! No proper Andorian being would ever behave so audaciously! Such a termagant would be justly put up for death... And you,_ * the plenipotentiary jeered, _*My former keth, my most beloved, provide my wife access to flee?*_

_*You thrust yourself upon one of the un-gifted, on an outlander! Janeway is Terran. She has no deep-rooted understanding of what it means to be wholly bound. How could you ever expect her to accept such a connection?!*_

Ek'Norval's asperity stumbled. _*She gave herself to me. Opened her body, sheathed me, cleaved unto me, time and time again, for well over a season.*_ His face doddered, hollowing. The mask of contempt he wore so righteously, excavated, revealing shame in his expression. _*I could not control myself. I fell into her thoughts...*_

_*Norval—*_

_*Th'se,*_ It was a supplication. _*Kathy is mine.*_

Placing his weight into his feet, Illigran domed his lover, his mind bristling with anger. _*Liruu is part of me!*_

Black spheres broadened, and Ek'Norval turned his head. His irises clouded; misting, as his gaze fell on Liruu. His pallor lightened. His unhappy face ballooned. He shut his eyes, against the sight. "Sh'za?" he entreated; an appeal with no reply, her title rolling out a strangled call that curtailed into a whine. 

Gloom and regret spumed out uncontrolled, immuring Illigran within a grueling whitecap of despair. He hung his head —his shoulders caving, deeply affected; burdened; de-energized and worn. _*Look on, mangled child, and remorse... Observe the damage you have wrought. Now, foolish boy, before it grows too late... Let Janeway go.*_

Ek'Norval slammed his head to the side in the opposite direction, reaching out fingers spread, for the unconscious figure on the bed. _*NO!*_

The refusal was a massive blow, an internal roar percussing the amalgam's brain that batted maniacally, back and forth, inside his crown. His marrow rang. The surrounding chamber seemed to shake. Bile threatened, and his legs felt as if they had, all but, disappeared. Not able to retain his perch, he slid, deboned, onto his side upon the floor. _*For all Our sakes. F-for what we onetime called Our keth,*_ he managed, weakly. _* Give her up. Ek'Norval, for Liruu. Give her up… Ch'te, for me. *_

“I will not."

The obdurate words, when spoken, oddly, momentarily dulled all pain. Sensations depressed; trickling into a pool at the back of Illigran's head as a clement throb. His malady re-centered. Grappling his neck in an instant, before he could recover, it shrieked back to life; rioting at full-force. 

The ambassador surged up onto his knees, emboldened. His eyes gleaming tempestuously, as he severed their connection; ripping his mind ruthlessly away.

Devastated, paralyzed, and in shock, Illigran, once again, began to weep. _*The Maquis will not be deterred for long, I have unpinned his soul.*_ "You are the same," he slurred, promulgating."Kin hearts mirroring duel cracked minds, incapable of letting go.... Twin Prigs to doom the Whole- of- Us to die. 

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. From a P/T fanfic -I can't remember which one. If any of you out there do, please contact me. I  
> would like to give the author proper credit. 
> 
> 2\. Pet aQ -Klingon epitaph


End file.
